


16 Lies and Counting

by Sunfreckle



Series: Modern Means Less Miserable [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Betaed by BadassIndustries, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, General warnings:, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Other, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, References to violence/criminal activity, Romance, Smoking, This is my attempt at realism, Trans Claquesous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-03-24 18:43:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 85,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13817181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Sunfreckle
Summary: Montparnasse is an excellent liar and lately he has exactly as much control over his life as he has over his words. Truly, his biggest worry these days is being randomly woken up by the jerks of friends he chooses to live with. Well, that and being bored to death. Especially on Tuesdays. Nothing interesting ever happens on a Tuesday.[Completely self-contained story, but part of the Modern Means Less Miserable universe.]





	1. Montparnasse likes to be woken up

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this was like trying to slow burn a powder keg and a fuse. I am sure Montparnasse still hasn’t forgiven me, I don’t think _I_ have forgiven me, but I will stand by my friends-to-lovers theme until the end of _time_ , so here it is.
> 
> Have sixteen chapters of loads of domestic Patron-Minette, Éponine being a badass best friend, and Jehan being a severely disrupting factor in Montparnasse’s peace of mind <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we start I need to give a disclaimer: this is meant to take place in ‘a big city in France’, but I am far too Dutch in my world building so…just pretend it takes place in some alternative timeline where France has the same sort of social welfare state as the Netherlands?

“Babet, I will _end_ you.”

“Oh, don’t be grouchy,” Babet says airily. “Sous is making you coffee…”

Montparnasse drags his covers over his head against the light that Babet just let in by throwing open the curtains. “How the fuck did you get my key?” he grunts.

“You’re not the only one that can charm our lovely landlady,” Babet quips and even though he doesn’t carry on talking, he makes it very clear he’s not leaving.

Montparnasse curses softly and sits up.

Claquesous appears in the doorway of Montparnasse’s bedroom and Montparnasse glares at him.

“Morning,” Claquesous smirks. He’s holding a mug.

“Why am I awake?” Montparnasse demands to know. “And that does _not_ smell like coffee.”

“Coffee’s in the kitchen,” Claquesous hums, taking a sip of what is probably tea. Montparnasse should be wondering why _he_ is awake, Claquesous is far more nocturnal than he is nowadays, but Montparnasse is too pissed off to care right now.

“You have sixty seconds before I go back to sleep,” he announces.

Babet starts talking. Something about favours and planning and old friends and then something about Gueulemer already having left for work and car-keys. Halfway through his fifth run-on sentence Montparnasse gives up. He doesn’t want to get up on his damn day off and drive all the way across town to deal with other people’s problems. But Homère – if not exactly a friend of his – is a friend of Babet’s and if all it takes to help him out is to show up and look menacing—

“Fine,” he grunts, getting out of bed. “Never mind I haven’t had a proper lie-in in _forever_.” He pushes past Claquesous and heads to the kitchen.

“Look,” Babet smirks. “It’s not my fault you have to work days at your cushy new retail job.”

 _Cushy_. Montparnasse glares daggers at him. “You wouldn’t last a day,” he growls.

“Probably not,” Babet says indifferently. “Wouldn’t try either, not for any kind of money.” He grins. “But we’re all so proud of your delicate young mind applying itself.”

“Fuck you,” Montparnasse spits. Every time Babet passes a birthday that nominally makes him two instead of one year older than Montparnasse he starts up again with the baby jokes.

Claquesous silently holds out a bottle of milk and Montparnasse snatches it out of his hand. The hours are actually pretty much the only thing he properly hates about his job. It seems it doesn’t matter how much time passes, he’s still not used to the whole nine to five thing. It kind of pisses him off.

Still, he knows he’s lucky to have this job. (Realizing that _also_ kind of pisses him off, but that’s another matter.) His friends like to joke that working at an antique store suits him because it’s full of common crap that likes to pretend it’s expensive. The truth is that it suits him because Montparnasse is, to his slight disgust, a good salesman. He can read people with a single glance and he can play them too. On his first day he sold a horror of a table to a young man with ten times more money than common sense and he enjoyed every second of it. Mrs Havisham had seen him do it and had told him right there that she highly suspected at least half the qualifications he had given her were bogus, but that she didn’t care.

By now Mrs Havisham knows for certain that _all_ of those qualifications were bogus, but considering the money he makes her, she really couldn’t care less. As far as Montparnasse is concerned, he’s been a model employee so far. He’s well dressed, punctual (to the extreme: never arrives early, never leaves late) and he has a very good eye for beautiful things. It was not until the first time Mrs Havisham took him to an auction, however, that Montparnasse knew for certain that she’d let him stay. But after he helped her to get all five of the best pieces on offer that day for far too good a price, she pretty much told him she wouldn’t let him go any time soon if she could help it. Incidentally that was also the day Montparnasse knew that he actually _wanted_ to stay.

He _loved_ the auction house. He enjoyed combing through the halls for treasures, he enjoyed calling out the bullshitting experts, he enjoyed the excitement in the air just before bidding began and he _adored_ psyching out the other buyers. Mrs Havisham had said very little during the ride home, but she had told him he had far too good a poker face for one so young. Montparnasse took that as a compliment.

So while Montparnasse carefully avoids saying anything about _liking_ his work at the antique shop, he certainly doesn’t hate it. And as far as bosses go, Mrs Havisham isn’t bad. She’s a clever business woman, her French is as accentless as his own, her lipstick and nail polish always match and she knows the difference between characterful and kitschy. Those are all things Montparnasse can respect. She’s also susceptible to flattery and softer than she likes to let on. _Those_ are things that Montparnasse can make use of.

Her softness is rather particular and really only visible in one area: desire. There aren’t a lot of people that come into the store with a proper _desire_ for something. The customers are mostly an endless supply of rich, pompous people that hardly look at a piece before buying it and Montparnasse enjoys overcharging them for everything they buy. Mrs Havisham does the same, or something very like it, except sometimes…she gives discounts. Because every now and then someone will come in and their eyes will fix on something utterly mundane – a chest, a piece of jewellery, a side table – and suddenly their eyes will widen and their mouth will tighten just a little and they’ll _want_ it. And more often than not they do not have the money and they leave without buying it. But they always come back. To stare. To agonize. To glance around the store frantically to see if it’s still there and to sigh when it is. And eventually, after having an argument with herself that Montparnasse has gotten used to witnessing with great amusement, Mrs Havisham will let them have it. She will ask them what they can give for it and she will let them have it for that price, whatever the actual cost may be. And then, when the customer starts spluttering, as they always do, she gives just a single explanation: “You covet it, that is enough.”

Every time it happens, Montparnasse watches in fascination. Not because he doesn’t understand, but because Mrs Havisham understands. Somehow, she seems to understand that you can want something so badly, so completely, that you pay for it with your own longing. Montparnasse paid like that for every truly beautiful thing that he’s ever taken. Taken, not stolen, because it isn’t stealing if it should belong to you. Paying for something with mere money is almost an insult, when you’re willing to exchange a piece of your soul for it just because it is too beautiful, or too magnificent, or too incredible for you not to have it.

Montparnasse understands this and since, incredibly, Mrs Havisham understands it too, Montparnasse allows her to be ever so slightly more than just his boss. She might still fire him, of course, when she finds out about his rap sheet, but most of that isn’t readily accessible anymore, so whatever of security there is in this part of life, Montparnasse figures he’s got it. For now.

No, the only thing apart from the hours that Montparnasse hates is that it’s, well, boring. Excepting auction days of course. Business is good, but ‘good’ for a shop like this means that people know you sell quality and drop by regularly, not that it actually gets busy. No one will ever catch him _wishing_ that a customer will come in to bother him, but even Montparnasse gets tired of standing about idly. It takes him a good while, but eventually he does.

Which is why Montparnasse’s scathing reply comes out a little half-hearted when Babet says, after a very long day that got a lot more complicated than any of them had anticipated:

“I’d apologise for keeping you up so late, but you can sleep through your first hours at the till anyway.”

Because that _is_ probably what he’ll be doing. Tomorrow is a Tuesday after all. Nothing interesting ever happens on a Tuesday.

♦

Montparnasse loves to be proven right, but he would have forgone the pleasure this time. He’s bored out of his mind all day and thanking the stars he gets to go home at the end of it. If it had been the _other_ kind of day he would have complained too of course. The kind with noisy kids and obnoxious couples buying each other presents. But right now he’s trying to walk literal hours of damn solitary confinement out of his bones. He’s so absorbed in his own mind, that he almost walks past the most interesting things he has ever seen on a Tuesday: a nymph trying to climb over a mesh fence. Or at least he presumes it’s a nymph, because no human in their right mind would wear a green tie-dye dress on brown corduroy trousers. Plus, no human should be allowed to have such a quantity of cascading copper curls. Nymph or not, they are failing at climbing the fence. Probably because of the heavy bag of books still hanging from their shoulder.

“Having a little trouble there?” Montparnasse says and the nymph starts and turns around.

Montparnasse looks straight into an oval face speckled with freckles and graced with the biggest hazel eyes he has ever seen. Their copper hair frames their face like fire and buried in the curls, stuck behind their ear, is a white rose made out of carefully cut tissue paper. Damn…

“They are throwing it _away_.”

Montparnasse blinks. Right, he asked a question. The nymph gestures in frustration at the locked gate, or rather, at the dumpster behind it. Montparnasse looks. The curved edge of a worked wooden frame sticks out from between the rubbish.

“I love that mirror,” the nymph sighs. “And now they broke it _and_ they’re throwing it away!”

Montparnasse can sympathize. It’s a nice frame. He glances up at the building. It’s one of the side buildings belonging to the community centre. “You go here?” he asks.

“I take a pottery class,” they explain.

Montparnasse smirks. Of course they do, he should have guessed; they are wearing what looks like homemade leather sandals. That said, they are by far the prettiest person in tie-dye, corduroy and leather Montparnasse has ever seen. He can only imagine what they look like in decent clothes. Or out of them.

The badly dressed nymph is still talking. “And I _saw_ the mirror was gone last time and I _asked_ what had happened to it. And they said it got smashed, but that they would fix it and now they are _throwing it away_.”

The red curls quiver angrily with every word and Montparnasse suddenly gets the feeling he’s witnessing something rare and unusual. Like a red moonrise or maybe even a solar eclipse. Maybe it’s the wide eyed indignation on the freckled face, but he’s pretty sure they aren’t used to being angry. Perhaps it’s un-nymphly to experience negative emotions.

“If you asked for it and they threw it away it belongs to you,” he says casually. “I’m pretty sure that’s a law somewhere, or it should be.”

“Right!” they exclaim. They fix their eyes on Montparnasse and he has to admit that he freezes for just a second when they look straight into his. “Will you help me get over the fence?” they ask.

Montparnasse blinks, he hadn’t quite expected a reaction like that, but then he smiles. “I’ll do you one better.” He fishes his lockpicks out of the side pocket of his designer bag and inspects the padlock on the gate. Easy. He’s very aware of the wide eyed stare he’s receiving as he picks the lock and he makes a deliberate show of it.

They actually let out a delighted gasp when the lock clicks open. Montparnasse carefully takes it off and opens the fence gate. He glances at them with a smirk and bows: “Go forth and take what’s yours.”

The nymph stares at him. “ _That_ —” they say. “—is _wicked!_ ”

Montparnasse watches them as they skip through the gate and towards the dumpster, dropping their bag. No one uses ‘wicked’ as a real word. He glances around for a moment, but there’s no one in sight so he follows the now triumphant nymph to the dumpster, expecting them to need a hand. They don’t. Clearly they’re stronger than they look.

“Why would you even consider throwing something this beautiful away?” they sigh, looking at the fractured pieces of glass in the worked wooden frame.

Montparnasse opens his mouth to reply.

“Just because it’s broken,” they continue. “As if beauty can be spoiled by accident or violence.”

Those last words hang in the air, Montparnasse can _feel_ them lingering. _Spoiled by accident or violence…_

“I’m Jehan, by the way.”

He blinks the lingering words away and wants to answer, but the newly identified Jehan is already turning away. Montparnasse only sees a glimpse of the bright smile that was apparently meant for him.

“What are you doing?” he asks for the second time that evening when Jehan scrambles up the side of the dumpster and swings a leg over the side, hitching up their dress.

“I’m missing some pieces.” They point at the broken mirror that is now resting carefully on its back.

They must be joking. “You are not seriously going to dig around in a dumpster looking for shards of glass?” Montparnasse grimaces. For a moment he thinks of those dainty hands stained with blood and he nearly flinches.

“It was in a box,” Jehan says determinedly. “There!” They lean down, holding on to the side of the dumpster with one hand. For a moment their tangle of red curls almost disappears from view and then they swing back upright. “Would you?” they ask and Montparnasse silently takes the shard of glass that is handed to him.

Jehan recovers three more large pieces, which Montparnasse all puts down on top of the broken mirror.

“Is it complete?” Jehan asks and Montparnasse looks up at him. They look out of place yet oddly at home there, perched on the side of a community centre dumpster, clad in faded forest green.

“There’s one shard missing,” he replies reluctantly.

“Drat,” Jehan mutters and they duck back down.

‘ _Drat?_ ’ Montparnasse thinks incredulously, but then he sees them let go of the side of the dumpster and nearly fall forward. Almost without interference from his brain Montparnasse’s hands move, snatching an ankle and a wrist, and he stabilizes Jehan like he has done to Gavroche or Brujon a million times.

“Wah!” Jehan gasps. They sit back up. “Thank you,” they laugh, their eyes shining down on Montparnasse with a look that’s relieved, but still startled.

Montparnasse lets go of them. “Watch yourself,” he grunts. He makes an effort not to glance at Jehan’s ankle. He’s sure he felt a bracelet there. Now he’s touched them he suddenly has the urge to do it again, and he really shouldn’t. Once he gets his hands on something he usually forgets to let go, until he gets bored and forgets to hold on and then whatever it was falls and shatters.

Jehan nods and lets out a soft grunt as they drag the entire cardboard box out of the dumpster. They drop it on the ground and jump down after it. Their curls go flying for a moment and Montparnasse begins to question the laws of gravity. They kneel beside the box, looking under the folded flaps. “Here it is!” they chirp happily, holding the last sparkling shard up to the quickly fading light. “But how do I bring them all safely home…?”

“Put them back in the frame,” Montparnasse says, opening his bag. “Safest place is in their original position. Tape them down with this.” He hands Jehan a roll of masking tape. “It won’t leave traces.”

Jehan blinks up at him.

“I work at an antique store,” he says and allows himself a smirk.

“Really!” they say, like this is a delightful surprise. “I work in a museum, on Saturdays. I study history.”

Montparnasse nods. Figures they would be a student, book bag and all that. He is silent while Jehan puzzles the mirror back together and tapes it down. The light is fading fast and they’re out of direct sight from the street, but Jehan has turned their back on him like they have nothing to fear. Well, they don’t, obviously, but it still makes Montparnasse frown.

“Like this?” they ask, glancing up at Montparnasse and suddenly his throat feels strangely dry.

“Yeah,” he says. “Like that.”

“Cool,” Jehan says and they get to their feet. “Thank you!” They hand back the roll of tape.

Montparnasse weighs it in his hand for a moment before putting it away. They’re so pretty…and so trusting. He could take out a pen. Grab Jehan’s hand when they try to reach down for the mirror and write his name and number on their arm… They’d call him. There’s never been a person that _didn’t_ call him. Oh he wants to, but does he want it badly enough?

Jehan lifts the mirror and flashes Montparnasse a smile. “All done,” they say. They look so triumphant.

“Do you have roommates that might ask you where you got it?” Montparnasse hums amusedly. He’s not sure why he asked that, but it’s small talk, isn’t it? He doesn’t need a reason.

“Yeah, I do,” Jehan says carelessly. “But they’ll just say: that’s Jehan for you, they can’t go a day without bringing home something strange.”

Montparnasse hums in place of an answer and follows Jehan out of the gate, closing it behind them and putting the padlock back in place.

“Do you think they’ll notice?” Jehan giggles, with a quick glance back at the quiet community centre.

He grins at them. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” he says, sinking his voice.

That tone of voice usually makes people fluster a little, but Jehan doesn’t. They just gaze at him and ask: “What’s _your_ name?”

“Montparnasse,” he answers, before he can stop himself.

“That’s a beautiful name,” Jehan decides. They look earnestly into his face some more and Montparnasse risks a real glance into their hazel eyes again. There are little flecks of green hidden in there. “You remind me of Shakespeare’s ninety-first sonnet,” Jehan says thoughtfully and then, instead of giving an explanation, they laugh and say: “Thank you for breaking into my community centre for me!”

“Anytime,” he replies with a quirked eyebrow. It’s a standard reply, but he means it. Any time this urban nymph would want to break in somewhere, he’d want to be there.

Jehan smiles, so wide that their cheeks dimple and suddenly they ask: “Do you like roses?”

Montparnasse does like roses, but he opts for a shrug instead of an answer.

“You like roses,” Jehan determines. “You look like you like either roses or lilies and I don’t have any lilies.” And before Montparnasse can stop them they pluck the white rose from behind their ear and put it into the breast pocket of Montparnasse’s jacket. “There you go,” they say. “And thanks again!”

With that they hitch up the mirror, turn around in a flurry of red curls and walk away. Jehan is walking hastily, head down, maybe they’re late for something. Montparnasse watches them go, a little dazed. This is a very unfamiliar feeling for him, but he can’t even resent it because, well…

Jehan turns the corner and disappears from sight. Slowly Montparnasse takes the paper rose from his breast pocket and sticks it into his buttonhole instead. He looks down on the delicate petals and considers that Jehan probably made it themself. He shakes his head. This was a strange encounter. And a strange souvenir. He decides to forget Jehan’s name and remember only the face, the eyes, the cascade of curls. That way they can stay a nymph met at sundown forever. That really would be best for both of them. Certainly for Je— the nymph.

Still, this was beautiful. A beautiful person and a beautiful meeting. And on a Tuesday too… Montparnasse smirks slightly and resumes his walk, in a much better mood than he began it.

♦

The store is not too far away from where Montparnasse lives. It’s biking distance really. For people who ride bikes that is, which is a subsection of humanity that Montparnasse does _not_ belong to. His outfits take far too long to select to mess them up with unnecessary exercise. So Montparnasse takes the bus, which is not a lot better around rush hour as far as getting his clothes mussed up go, but what can he say, the world is a cruel place.

In any case, it’s not a long bus ride and the walk from the bus stop is just long enough to clear his head. Or, in this case, to dwell a little longer on the aesthetic properties of hazel eyes and red hair.

His destination is a once stately town house with badly whitewashed brick walls and panelled windows. Babet jokingly calls it ‘Maison Minette’, named after their landlady. Montparnasse calls it ‘home’. Which is just a little more than merely a place to come home _to_ , and that probably has something to with the trio of assholes sitting on the steps out front as he arrives there now.

“You’re back late,” Babet observes. “Get in an argument over leather upholstery?”

“I don’t _argue_ about leather upholstery,” Montparnasse deadpans. He glances at Claquesous, whose long fringe looks like it’s been dyed blue with a spray can. It wasn’t like that yesterday— well, this morning, technically. “What the hell happened to your hair, Sous?” he asks disapprovingly. “You didn’t let Faunt at it, did you?”

“Trying something,” Claquesous mutters vaguely.

“It looks ridiculous,” Montparnasse admonishes. “Go to a colourist.”

“Did I ask?” Claquesous snarks pointedly, or as pointedly as he can sound while still slurring all his words together.

Montparnasse scoffs and steps over his legs to get to the door. He’s sitting completely in the way, probably because it’s the place where the smoke from the others bothers him the least.

Before Montparnasse as reached the door, however, Gueulemer stills him with a tap on his leg. He silently holds up a cigarette for him.

“Thanks,” Montparnasse shakes his head. “Maybe later.”

Gueulemer shrugs his massive shoulders. “Suit yourself.”

When Montparnasse closes the front door behind him a slightly rough, feminine voice calls out:

“Parnasse, darling, is that you?”

“Unless the evening grew feet to come visit you in person,” he drawls, turning around to face the door that opened in the hallway.

Mme Minette snorts derivatively, but smiles anyway. Montparnasse often remembers to be pleased that the two main authority figures in his life at the moment, his boss and his landlady, are both very susceptible to flattery.

“Your friend with the noisy gaggle of siblings is here,” Minette informs him. “She insisted I let her into your place.”

“Did she bring the gaggle of siblings?” Montparnasse asks. Éponine’s little sister and brothers are literally the only kids he can actually stand, but their combined presence is still something that requires mental preparation.

“No, she came alone,” Minette says. “I told her to wait out front, or ask Babet, but she said she had no patience for the boys and I couldn’t exactly fault her for that so I gave her the spare key.”

Right, that reminds him. He takes a gentle step forward. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t have given Ponine the key…” he says. “Because I know she can be _very_ persuasive…”

Minette snorts slightly.

Montparnasse turns his smile into a grimace. “But I was woken up yesterday by those idiots charging into my bedroom and that might have scarred me for life.” He gives Minette a convincingly entreating look. “Please don’t let them do that again.”

“Darling they woke _me_ up too,” she says. “You think I appreciated that?” She waves her hand. “Off you go and don’t slam the door.”

“I never do,” Montparnasse simpers.

He trots up the stairs, past the first floor apartment that Babet and Claquesous share. The ground floor belongs to Minette of course, but the entire second is Montparnasse’s. He calls it his finder’s fee. Technically that makes it the rightful property of Gueulemer, he has lived here the longest and is actually the one that suggested Montparnasse move in. But as he is quite content with his attic and Montparnasse was the one that had recommended the others to Minette, he thinks he more than deserves a floor to himself. Even if his recommendation was only that his friends would be glad of the low rent and wouldn’t report the fact that they had to pay exactly a third of it in cash.

When Montparnasse has made it up the two flights of stairs and is in front of his own front door, he hesitates just a moment. Then, quickly, he takes the paper rose out of his buttonhole and tucks it into his inside pocket, careful not to crush it too much. None of the guys had remarked on it, he’s pretty sure Claquesous is the only one that even noticed, but Éponine is quicker in pointing such things out and for some reason Montparnasse does not feel like talking about J— the mirror stealing nymph.

He pushes the door open and steps into the living room, where Éponine is lounging on his couch.

“Welcome home honey, how was your day?” she singsongs.

Montparnasse walks over to the couch and holds out his hand. “Keys,” he orders.

“On the coffee table,” Éponine points without moving her head.

Montparnasse hums and walks over to the arm chair opposite the couch, grabbing the keys as he goes. Maybe he’ll keep these himself from now on…

“While you’re up—” Éponine says just before he sits down.

He narrows his eyes at her.

“Got any sugar?” she asks, batting her eyes at him.

Éponine only asks for sweets when she’s had such a bad day that she wants a drink, but doesn’t want to drink. Silently Montparnasse walks to the cupboard, takes a bag of Arlequins out of a teapot – all candy must be hidden or Gavroche will find it – and throws it in the general direction of Éponine’s head. She catches it just before it smacks her in the face.

“Shit at school or at home?” he asks, sitting down.

She plays idly with the candy wrapper. “I flunked that test I took last month,” she says after a moment’s silence.

“The family law thing?” Montparnasse asks. She would not shut up about that for a week.

Éponine nods.

Montparnasse sighs. He never did the further education thing. He dropped out without attending a single class of whatever it was he enrolled in to keep his foster parents off his back. But Éponine is determined to become a social worker and Montparnasse actually thinks she’d be damn good at it. If only she can earn the stupid papers that say so. “This is the first time you’ve done this thing right?” he says. “You can retake it.”

“Yeah,” she mutters. She manages to sound dejected even with her mouth full of candy.

“Ask Wonder Boy to help you,” Montparnasse suggests.

“No,” she says flatly.

“Ask Wonder Gal to help you,” he says.

“No.” This time she glares.

Well, then he’s out of ideas. It’s not like he can help Éponine study. He knows she worked fucking hard on that test. Still, Éponine is smart, she’ll figure out how to pass. There’s a long silence.

“Dinner?” he says finally.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Éponine sighs.

She sits on one of the counters while Montparnasse cooks. That leaves him only one usable work surface, but he’ll deal.

“Lucille wants to have Téo tested for ADHD or ADD or all of them,” Éponine grumbles.

“To get him pills?” Montparnasse asks.

“As if,” Éponine snarls. She lets her shoes dangle off the ends of her toes. “No…something about knowing his learning type and managing his energy.” She sighs. “She hasn’t said anything to him about it yet…apparently his teacher thinks it might help.”

“Well, they talked to you first, that’s good,” Montparnasse says neutrally.

Éponine fought tooth and nail to get legal guardianship of all four of her younger siblings as soon as she turned eighteen. That’s a little over two years ago now and Montparnasse still remembers how hell-bent she was on getting all of her siblings out of the group home and into a place where she could take care of them herself. Child services wouldn’t let her of course. It was not like they could let an eighteen year old run off with four minors. But they didn’t want to split them up either. Eventually they found a slightly older couple, used to only taking in temporary fosters, that was willing to take in all five of the Thénardier kids. Although Montparnasse doesn’t really want to call them that, because M. Thénardier is literal garbage and as far as he’s concerned can burn in hell and Mme Thénardier is not much better. Éponine didn’t want her sister and brothers to go into foster care again, but Lucille and Marcel(or M. and Mme Morin, but Éponine refuses to call them that) made it very clear that they weren’t interested in ‘playing parents’. They struck a deal with Éponine. They’d provide a stable home for her and her siblings so she could go to college and they would respect her role as legal guardian in all matters. Éponine had agreed. Begrudgingly at first, but nowadays it seems to go pretty okay. At least it looks that way to Montparnasse.

“I guess,” Éponine sighs. Suddenly a small smile passes across her face. “You know they’re gonna do a play? For the end of l’école primaire. It’s going to be so freaking cute. They’re playing Robin Hood. Téo told JuJu he gets to play with a real bow and arrow, you should have seen his face.”

“Do they?” Montparnasse asks, glad to change the subject.

“Get a real bow and arrow?” Éponine frowns. “Of course not.”

“I can get him a—”

“No.”

He grins and turns to throw the chopped onions in the skillet. From the corner of his eye he sees Éponine’s hand reach towards the pile of sliced mushrooms and he whacks her across the hand with the flat of his knife.

“Ow!”

“Hands off the food until it’s done.”

“Give me a mushroom.”

“No, and next time I’m using the sharp end.”

“I’ll tell Lucille I have an abusive boyfriend.”

“You wish I was your boyfriend.”

“I wish you were less of an asshole.”

“I wish you were less of a bitch.”

Dinner is comfortable. Montparnasse would never admit it, but he likes Éponine’s surprise visits even better than their scheduled hangouts.

By the time dinner is over the tired look on Éponine’s face has faded somewhat. Montparnasse listens to her chattering, lounging in his chair without giving any reply. When Éponine wants a reply she has her own ways of making that clear.

“I went on a date the other weekend,” Éponine says, rather suddenly. It’s followed by a decided silence and a sideways glance in his direction. That would be Éponine making clear she’d like a reply.

“A date or a Date,” Montparnasse hums.

“A Date, I suppose,” Éponine says, pushing around the crumbs lying on the table next to her plate.

Montparnasse gives her an appraising look. “Not a success then.”

Éponine opens her mouth to protest and he gives her a blank stare. When Éponine is pleased with something she’s vocal about it. Clearly this guy didn’t stack up.

“No,” she admits. “She was nice, but…” She pulls a face.

That’s…new. Éponine talks about girls sometimes, but she never mentioned actually going out with one. Is that why she felt the need to tell him? Montparnasse gives her a smirk. “Well, better luck next time. Want me to set you up with Mardi?” He grabs his phone for added effect. “I think I still have her number somewhere.”

Éponine snorts. “Fuck off,” she grins. The grin is genuine. “And if I wanted Mardi’s number I’d ask Mags.”

“Well excuse me for trying to help,” Montparnasse huffs, feigning hurt indignation.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, rolling her eyes. She sighs. “Do you have to get up early tomorrow or can we watch something?”

“I always have to get up early nowadays,” Montparnasse grunts resentfully.

Éponine nods sympathetically and gets up to grab his laptop.

Montparnasse doesn’t argue.

Later that night, when Éponine has gone home, Montparnasse remembers the flower in his pocket. He takes it out and studies it for a while. Gently he plucks on the paper petals until it has lost the slightly crumpled look being stuck in his jacket has given it. Maybe he should throw it away, but it’s pretty. Too pretty, actually, too delicate. Montparnasse has no idea where to keep it. Eventually he puts it in the glass display case he keeps in his bedroom. The one with his knives and antique lighters.

It’s the only soft thing in there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this story so long ago it feels unreal to finally start sharing it. Please share your thoughts with me if you have the time, I am beyond excited to finally introduce my Patron-Minette properly!
> 
> For the curious Shakespeare’s 91st sonnet goes as follows:
> 
> Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,  
> Some in their wealth, some in their body's force,  
> Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill;  
> Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;  
> And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,  
> Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:  
> But these particulars are not my measure;  
> All these I better in one general best.  
> Thy love is better than high birth to me,  
> Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,  
> Of more delight than hawks or horses be;  
> And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:  
> Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take  
> All this away, and me most wretched make.


	2. Montparnasse can’t stand kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m absolutely glowing because of the response to the first chapter, I really am, you’re all lovely. <3

Despite the late night Montparnasse is still awake enough to be bored the next morning. Normally that would mean he’d be messing around on his phone, but somehow he’s found himself looking into the copy of The Complete Works of Shakespeare that’s been in the decorative section of the store for ages. He’s not interested in the plays, he’s looking at the sonnets.

Montparnasse has very little patience for prose, but he quite likes poetry. He likes it when the words come in short bursts, exploding images in his mind. Poetry, he feels, is the equally dangerous opposite of a lie. It's not truth, it's _more_ than the truth. Except written down and Montparnasse is still not fully convinced you can lie on paper. A falsehood written down is just misinformation, it isn't a lie. Lies need to be spoken. Lies need an immediate audience. Montparnasse tells exquisite lies, but he can’t write.

Shakespeare never really appealed to him though and it doesn’t appeal to him now either.

He’s still scornfully repeating phrases in his head when Mrs Havisham comes in a little before twelve.

“There, there,” she hums. “No need to look so cross. I am in time to release you.”

Montparnasse shakes his head. He was not frowning at her, just at a the sentence in his own mind. _…though new-fangled ill…_ But her words have driven it away already and he answers smoothly:

“If you had not come I would just have locked the doors.”

Wednesday afternoon is his half-day off. On Wednesday the elementary schools close early. On Wednesday people bring their damn children into the store.

Mrs Havisham turns her eyes to the heavens. “Run along then,” she says, waving him away and Montparnasse does, after putting The Complete Works of Shakespeare back on its shelf and pushing the ninety first sonnet firmly out of his mind.

♦

He hasn’t been home for more than an hour when there’s a knock on the door, followed immediately by Babet’s voice calling out:

“Parnasse, dude, I need a favour.”

Montparnasse is lying on the couch watching an old Project Runway and he really doesn’t feel like getting up. “Afternoon off,” he raises his voice. “And you used up your damn favours with me on Monday!"

“ _Please_.”

Montparnasse raises his head. Babet never pleads. He persuades. Come to think of it, Babet shouldn’t even be awake, he spent all night last night manning the lights for a theatre show. Montparnasse gets up and opens the door. Babet looks genuinely anxious.

“What is it?” Montparnasse asks.

“Vi asked me to babysit,” he blurts, something very near panic on his face.

“You mean ‘take care of your child’,” Montparnasse sneers.

“Yeah,” Babet nods, shifting his weight from one foot to another and the fact that he doesn’t have a scathing comeback is mildly shocking. Instead he adds, looking almost grey: “Like…right now.”

Montparnasse frowns. “And?”

“And I _can’t_ keep Lily at my place!” he says urgently.

“Violet lives three quarters of an hour away,” Montparnasse says. “You have time to clean.”

“She’ll wake Sous,” Babet protests.

Montparnasse scoffs, but hesitates. Claquesous is a nuisance when he’s designing a new performance. His mood is always best when he’s been working, but going in and out of character leaves him with a strange sort of hangover afterwards.

“Come on, Parnasse, _please_ ,” Babet pleads again. “This is the first time Vi’s asked me to actually help. I can’t say no. Her parents already hate me.”

“That tends to happen when you knock up someone’s daughter and then disappear for six months,” Montparnasse snarks.

Babet looks away, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

Montparnasse heaves another sigh. There goes his afternoon off. “Fine,” he says. “But this time you really owe me.”

♦

Montparnasse follows Babet downstairs when Violet arrives, just in case his friend does something stupid, but he’s actually surprisingly calm. Calmer than Violet anyway.

“Hi,” she says, getting out of her parents’ car and glancing at Montparnasse.

She has mixed feelings about him, he knows that, but they’re not as mixed as her feelings for Babet.

“Hey,” Babet says gently, stepping up to the car.

Violet gives him a conflicted look and instead of answering him she opens the door. “Look who it is,” she says, her voice suddenly higher as she leans into the car. “It’s Papa!”

“Yes!” a slightly lisped voice cheers and Lily, freed from her car seat, scrambles out of the car.

Lily must be about two now and Montparnasse has to admit what Babet has been saying since she was born is right: she has her father’s mouth and nose.

“Papa’s going to look after you while Maman goes to her job training,” Violet says, fixing a hair clip that’s nearly slipped out of Lily’s short hair.

Montparnasse can see the besotted look on Babet’s face as she talks and he sighs inwardly.

“Yes!” Lily cheers again and promptly sits down on the sidewalk and tries to take off her left shoe.

“Wait with that until you’re inside, baby,” Violet says, moving her little hands away.

“You want to go up?” Babet offers with a big grin.

“Papa!” Lily agrees and stretches her little arms up.

Babet’s face shines and he picks up his daughter and holds her while Violet takes a big bag out of the car.

“Everything you need is in here,” she says. “I’ll be back in three hours, four tops.” She looks anxious.

“Don’t worry, Vi,” Babet says softly. “You _can_ count on me.”

Montparnasse watches them with his hands in his pockets. He’s on Babet’s side, obviously, but he can’t really blame Violet for not being very eager to trust the guy who basically went AWOL for half a year after finding out she got pregnant. Ever since Lily was born, however, Babet has tried his absolute hardest to be whatever she and Lily need. He’s not very good at it. At least, he isn’t good at showing it. Montparnasse doubts whether Violet is aware of how much Babet would be willing to do for her and their daughter. What she certainly does not know is that when her last ex crossed the line from possessive to aggressive when she dumped him, Babet and his friends beat the crap out of him. It’s not exactly romantic, but at least the jerk left her alone after that.

“Um, Parnasse,” Babet mutters, holding his child with two arms wrapped anxiously around her. “Can you-?”

Montparnasse fixes him with an unimpressed stare and silently holds out his hand for the bag Violet is still holding. She hands it to him and gives him a very hesitant smile. Then she turns to Lily, now almost at eye-level for her and says:

“This is Montparnasse, he’s a friend of Papa’s.”

Lily’s dark blue eyes turn his way and Montparnasse looks back thoughtfully. She’s so damn _small_.

“Mmmm….” Lily goes.

“Montparnasse,” Violet says helpfully. She clearly has delusions about her daughter’s proficiency at speaking.

“P’nass,” Lily nods.

Montparnasse sniffs.

“Close enough,” Violet laughs and Montparnasse can practically feel the burst of joy coming from Babet at the sound of it. “I’ve got to go,” she says, nervously.

“Yeah, um, good luck with your training, Vi,” Babet says.

“Thanks,” she mutters and presses a quick kiss to Lily’s forehead. “Love you, Lils. Bye.”

“Bye!” Lily cries.

She and Babet wave as the car drives away, Montparnasse just stands there holding the bag. He wonders if he can get away with just leaving Babet at his place. He could go to the park or something… Then again, he’s not sure if he wants to let Babet and a toddler loose in his apartment unsupervised. No, scratch that, he’s absolutely certain he _doesn’t_ want to do that.

“Are we going inside,” he demands. “Or were you planning on standing here for the rest of the day.”

Babet turns to follow him when Montparnasse leads the way, but he’s pretty sure his friend has hardly registered that he spoke to him. Babet has the stupidest look on his face.

“Man,” he grins, nuzzling the top of Lily’s head while they walk upstairs. “I can’t believe this is actually happening.” He modulates his voice, probably to match that daft expression. “It’s so cool you’re here, Lils,” he coos.

Lily giggles and pushes her small hands against Babet’s face in a sweet but probably uncomfortable gesture. Babet doesn’t look uncomfortable. He looks delighted. Montparnasse rolls his eyes.

As soon as they’re in his apartment Montparnasse closes the doors to the bedroom and bathroom.

“Alright,” he says. “Let the creature loose.”

Babet puts Lily down on the floor. “Yes,” she says and sits down. She takes off her left shoe and holds it out to him. “That,” she says with conviction.

“Oh, thank you,” Babet says, taking it and sitting down on the floor next to her. Lily nods approvingly.

Montparnasse is about to go into the kitchen to make some coffee, but Lily has taken off her other shoe and now looks up at Montparnasse with solemn eyes. “That,” she says, offering him the shoe.

“No thanks,” Montparnasse says. He’s not going to play, that is going too far.

Lily’s tiny face crumples into a frown and Babet glares at him.

For fuck’s sake. “ _Thank you_ ,” Montparnasse drawls and he bends down to take the shoe.

The frown disappears immediately. “No socks,” Lily shakes her head, wiggling her toes in their stripy socks.

“You want me to take them off?” Babet asks.

“No!” Lily cries as soon as he touches her feet.

“Okay!” Babet startles. “Sorry, I won’t take them off.”

“No,” Lily replies happily and she begins to pull on the laces of his sneakers.

Babet lets her and takes a picture of her while she tries to take off his left shoe. “For Gueul,” he grins at Montparnasse while he sends it.

“And no one else, I’m sure,” Montparnasse hums. He’s still standing, holding that stupid tiny shoe and not really knowing what to do. What he does know is that Gueulemer will be thrilled to hear that Babet’s has his baby girl over. He was the one that eventually convinced Babet that not being a part of her life would fuck him up way more than having to do a little growing up. Montparnasse doesn’t know how he did it, only that he took Babet out for a smoke one night and the next day Babet sent Violet an email to apologise.

Barely a minute after Babet has put his phone away again they hear heavy footsteps on the stairs.

“Gueul’s not home is he?” Babet says, surprised.

“Shouldn’t be,” Montparnasse says, but the heavy knock on the door says otherwise. He goes to answer it and Gueulemer lumbers inside, grinning like mad as soon as he sees Babet on the floor with Lily standing between his knees.

“See the little princess,” he says in his rumbly voice and Lily gazes up at him in awe.

“Woo,” she whispers. Which, Montparnasse supposes, is quite a reasonable response to seeing Gueulemer for the first time.

“That’s Gueul,” Babet says, grinning. “Say hi, Lils.”

Lily says nothing, she gapes, mouth open like a fish.

“Hello,” Gueulemer says cooingly, lowering himself onto the ground as well. What is it about babies that makes people want to sit on the floor? Montparnasse has perfectly good furniture to sit on. Not that he particularly wants a baby in contact with it.

“Not needed at the foundry today?” Montparnasse inquires.

“Boss had word there’d be an inspection,” Gueulemer says, holding out his enormous brown hand so Lily can study his calloused fingers. “Everyone with a record was told to skip the day.”

“Hm,” Montparnasse hums. Gueulemer works at a foundry downtown. They smelt and work all kinds of metal and work it in their workshop. They make all sorts of things. Dumbbells and trophies, whatever you can make out of cast iron. They do some finer work too though, and it’s a pretty good place to go if you need some valuable metal molten down until it’s…no longer recognisable. That’s how Montparnasse got to know him actually.

But right now Gueulemer is letting Babet’s daughter clumsily put her hairclip on one of his dreadlocks. Lily seems rather eager to get rid of her accessories. Montparnasse can’t blame her, Violet managed to absolutely cover her in ladybugs. He looks down and realises he is still holding her shoe.

“Well,” he says. “Two lackeys must be enough for the princess, so I’ll be in my room.” Kids are weird enough to begin with, but toddler are even worse. They’re too young to be sweet-talked into being quiet and their leaps of logic baffle him.

“Sure, dude,” Babet says happily.

Montparnasse tries to give him the tiny red and black shoe, but Lily makes an affronted sound and points at him accusingly: “No!”

“Alright, alright,” he huffs. “I’ll keep your shoe.”

“Here, that,” Lily says, taking out her other clip. This one also has a ladybug on it, but it somehow still manages not to match the other one. She holds it out to Montparnasse.

If he doesn’t take it Babet will probably start sulking at him again. Montparnasse crouches down, takes it the clip, moves his fingers and makes it disappear. Magic tricks and pickpocketing are very similar, it’s all sleight of hand.

Lily gasps and claps her hands. “Again!” she cries and, immediately adds sweetly: “Please?”

Involuntarily a small grin passes across Montparnasse face. “I can’t do it again,” he says, leaning one hand on Babet’s shoulder. “Your clip’s gone.”

“No,” she laughs, grabbing at his hands until he hold them out for her. “Again!” She peeks in his sleeves and turns his hands over.

“Maybe your _Papa_ can find it,” Montparnasse suggests. The mocking tone clearly doesn’t escape Babet, but he just as clearly doesn’t care.

Especially not since Lily immediately turns to him with wide eyes and demands: “Papa, where?”

“Let’s see,” Babet mutters. “You looking for this?” He opens and closes his hands a couple times and the third time the clip is in the left one.

Lily cries out for joy, snatches it, thrusts it in Montparnasse’s direction and demands: “Again!” And then once again: “ _Please_?”

“Better manners than her father,” Gueulemer chuckles.

“Prettier face, too,” Montparnasse adds snarkily and then – with a relenting sigh for good measure – he gives in and sits down on the floor.

♦

Four hours later Montparnasse is very relieved to have his apartment to himself again. Lily smeared apple sauce on his cashmere sweater and Babet had the nerve to try and change her diaper on his damn table. He _eats_ there.

Still, he has a video of Lily riding on Gueulemer’s shoulders and enough pictures of Babet being an absolute idiot to provide blackmail material for the rest of his life. It could have been worse, really. And Violet had seemed really pleased when she picked the kid up. Maybe she’ll bring her over again. If she does, though, Babet would just have to work it out with Claquesous, because Montparnasse is not doing this again any time soon.

He’s absentmindedly wiping off some surfaces that have mysteriously become sticky when his phone beeps. He glances at it.

 **Ponine** : Can I come over with the boys?

Montparnasse sighs. What is he, a damn day-care? His phone beeps again.

 **Ponine** : We’ll bring take-out.

Montparnasse is tired, but Éponine usually doesn’t bring Matéo and Judoc when she comes over. Besides, he saw her yesterday. This is excessive. With means it’s probably an emergency of sorts.

His phone beeps again, but this time it’s Gavroche.

 **Gav** : Marcels parents here. Sucks. Ep will fight this lady

Montparnasse throws the cleaning rag in the sink and wipes his hands on his designer jeans. He has to soak those anyway. To Gavroche he sends back a quick: “K” and to Éponine:

 **Parnasse** : Sure

Éponine’s reply comes way too fast.

 **Ponine** : Chinese?

 **Parnasse** : Thai

 **Ponine** : Ok

Montparnasse sits on the windowsill and smokes a cigarette until he sees Éponine’s tiny car turn into the street. He extinguishes the cigarette butt in his ash tray and empties it in the trash. Éponine is still anxiously trying to keep Gavroche away from the habit, which is as hypocritical as it is admirable.

When he opens the front door Matéo and Judoc immediately start running and he drops down to one knee to hug them both. Hugs aren’t his thing any more than children are, but the Thénardier kids are exceptions to both.

“Hi Parnasse!” they cheer.

“Hey squirts, long time no see,” he grins, squeezing them both for a second. When he lets go he lowers his voice and says: “You know what Minette called you guys the other day? A noisy gaggle.”

This information has exactly the expected effect. Eager to live up to their reputation Judoc and Matéo bolt inside the house and up the stairs, whooping and hollering all the way. Éponine smiles, but it’s strained. She’s taking two bags of take-out out of the car.

Gavroche strolls up to the door with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking as unconcerned as his fourteen year old self can manage. “Hi,” he says.

Montparnasse smirks at him and holds out the keys to his apartment. “Stop your brothers from tearing up the place, will you?”

Gavroche grabs the keys with a lopsided grin of appreciation at this show of faith and pushes past Montparnasse, who gives him a friendly shove as he does so.

“Thanks,” Éponine mutters as they both climb the stairs, Montparnasse deliberately walking slowly.

“Curfew?” he asks. Éponine usually has some sort of arrangement with her foster family, or host family, or whatever they are.

Clearly, considerate arrangements are not on Éponine’s mind right now. “Whenever I fucking want,” she grits.

“Zelma?” he asks

“Sleepover.”

Montparnasse nods and doesn’t ask further.

Inside his apartment Judoc is sliding off his leather couch, Matéo is inspecting the cashmere sweater that is soaking in the bathroom sink and Gavroche has helped himself to a can of soda.

Silently Éponine starts unpacking the bags of food on the table and Montparnasse fetches plates and cutlery, because he likes take-out, but he also has standards. (And a dishwasher.)

“Alright gang,” Éponine says, grinning through the stress on her face. “Grub’s up.”

The boys come running, but they’re definitely not as rowdy as they usually are.

“So Juju,” Montparnasse says when Éponine starts dishing out the food. “Have you seen Téo shoot a bow yet or have I been lied to?”

That sets Judoc and Matéo off for the rest of the time that they’re eating. Montparnasse eggs them on shamelessly, with occasional help from Gavroche and Éponine _doesn’t_ look grateful, because she’s above that.

“Can we see your weapons?” Matéo asks eagerly as soon as they’ve all swallowed their last bites.

“If you wash your grubby little hands first,” Montparnasse says. He’s had enough sticky paw prints on his belongings today.

Hands tolerably clean and mouths grinning wide Éponine’s younger brothers charge into Montparnasse’s bedroom. They crowd each other in front of the glass case and gape at the assortment of knives, lighters and the occasional knuckle duster, that they have seen so many times before. Gavroche follows, not so much to look at the (partially illegal) treasures, but mostly to smirk at Montparnasse.

“What’s that?” Judoc asks, pointing at the paper rose behind the glass.

“What does it look like,” Montparnasse says. “It’s a rose.” He had forgotten it was in there to be honest.

“Why’s it made from paper?” Matéo asks. He’s nearly pressing his nose against the glass, ( _nearly_ , he knows better).

“Why’s it in there?” Judoc talks over him.

Why _did_ he put it in there? “Because it was a gift,” Montparnasse answers.

By now Gavroche is looking at the rose too.

“Who from?” Matéo asks.

Montparnasse glances at them, leaning against the wall. Three pairs of eyes are fixed on him. Montparnasse has missed these kids, and honestly, he just can’t resist an audience. “From a nymph,” he says.

Matéo and Judoc react with all the combined disbelief of twelve and ten years old.

“No way.”

“You’re lying!”

“I’d never lie—” Montparnasse says solemnly.

Gavroche snorts and Montparnasse gives him a side-eyed glance.

“—about something so utterly unbelievable,” he finishes. “If you lie, always make it mundane and plausible.”

“Or so outrageous you couldn’t possibly have made it up,” Gavroche supplies, the corners of his mouth quirking up.

Montparnasse gives him an approving look. (He’s pretty much on the same page as Éponine when it comes to keeping Gavroche off the streets, but there’s no reason why he shouldn’t learn the _worthwhile_ lessons it has to offer.)

“So how did you get it?” Judoc asks.

“Yeah,” Matéo prompts.

Montparnasse shifts his attention back to them. “I’m not going to tell you,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. “You just said you don’t believe me anyway.”

“We do!” Judoc cries.

“Come on, tell us,” Matéo says, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“We want to know about the nymph,” Judoc begs.

And because Matéo and Judoc are fond of stories and Montparnasse hasn’t seen them in a while and Éponine is busy cleaning in the kitchen anyway…

“They gave me the rose in return for stealing something they loved.”

Montparnasse makes a proper story out of it. It needs remarkably little embellishment, only some omissions. It takes very little effort to turn Jehan – he should really work a little harder on forgetting their name – into a proper nymph and the circumstances of their meeting are odd enough to make for a very nice story.

Matéo and Judoc listen with wide eyes. Judoc is clearly more willing to actually believe it, but Matéo is willing to pretend in favour of being entertained. Even Gavroche is listening intently. Montparnasse drags the story out a little too long. Éponine appears in the doorway in time for the end, smiling at the sight of all three of her brothers lying on or leaning against Montparnasse’s bed.

“And I watched them walk away…until I blinked, then they were gone, like they’d never even been there in the first place,” he finishes.

“But you had the rose,” Judoc sighs.

“Yes,” Montparnasse nods, glancing at Éponine from the corner of his eye. Her face is suspiciously neutral.

There’s a short silence, in which Judoc looks dreamy, Matéo bites his lip and Gavroche looks at Montparnasse with a slight frown.

“Hey guys,” Éponine says, still leaning against the doorpost. “I turned Parnasse’s computer on for you, you could go mess up his YouTube recommendations.”

Judoc and Matéo nearly trip over their own feet on their way out of the room. Gavroche follows them with a very significant ‘I know what you’re doing’ look over his shoulder.

Éponine steps into the room, closing the door behind her. “Who’s this nymph person then?” she asks, walking over to glance at the paper rose. She frowns slightly as she looks at it.

“Someone I met,” Montparnasse shrugs.

“That’s all?” she asks, glancing up distractedly.

He shrugs again.

“Man,” Éponine sighs, turning away from the display case. “You just had an ‘aesthetic meeting’ and then nothing? When will you finally have some proper drama in your life?” She shoves him.

Montparnasse smirks. It is a running joke between them that Éponine is indebted to him for her endless bitching about Marius. Of all the people she could have chosen to obsess over, it had to be Marius bloody Pontmercy. And god, did it drag on. Montparnasse still doesn’t understand what exactly happened there. To be honest, he stopped trying to understand. Éponine’s pining was something he could only listen to, he didn’t have a clue how it worked.

At first he had to hear that Marius was amazing, but would never like her. Then he had to hear that Marius was her friend, but would never _like_ like her. Then he had to hear that Marius was an asshole and a complete idiot for falling for ‘some stupid waitress’. Then ‘some stupid waitress’ turned into ‘my new classmate can you fucking believe it’. Then he had to listen to several weeks’ worth of mixed feelings that quite frankly didn’t make any sense whatsoever and at the end of them Éponine suddenly announced that she had gotten Marius and Cosette together by making an appointment with both of them and ditching them together.

Of all the things she did, that baffled Montparnasse the most. He’s quite capable of understanding that for Éponine it wasn’t an option to just get drunk with Marius and get him out of her system in a night, but that she’d simultaneously be in love with him and set him up with another girl he really can’t understand. Anyway, that is what she did and that was also the time Montparnasse had to stop calling Marius ‘that moron you like’ and switch it to a sarcastic ‘Wonder Boy’ instead. Accompanied, after Éponine’s stories about her became more and more frequent, by ‘Wonder Gal’.

“I’d rather keep you in debt to me,” Montparnasse smirks. “I could cash that in for something a lot more useful than talking.”

Éponine groans and let’s herself slide to the floor with a chuckle. She draws up her knees, leaning against the wall, and closes her eyes. Montparnasse looks at her. She definitely looks like she could use a drink, but since that’s out of the question… Montparnasse walks over to his bedside table and pulls out a black and gold jewellery box from the back of the drawer. Éponine opens her eyes when he sits down next to her.

“Here,” he says, offering her the box.

“What the hell?” Éponine grunts, but she takes it from him. Her eyes widen with genuine shock when she opens it. “Why the fuck do _you_ have Kinder Eggs?” she gapes.

“No comment,” Montparnasse says, taking an egg out of the box.

“You have a stash of Kinder Eggs in your bedroom?” Éponine says incredulously, but she’s keeping her voice down. There’s only four eggs in the box and if her brothers find out World War Three will happen.

“We all have our weaknesses,” Montparnasse says neutrally.

“Unbelievable,” Éponine says. “I’ve known you for fucking – what – seven years?”

They both unwrap an egg and eat in silence. To Montparnasse they taste like being nine years old. He tries to remember how big these things used to be in his small hands, without remembering the hands of his father offering them to him. Montparnasse actually _bought_ these, but he highly doubts his father ever gave him anything that was paid for with his own money… To be fair, most of the Kinder Eggs Montparnasse got for himself hadn’t been paid for either. That’s the other thing they taste like, that little thrill in the top of his chest when he puts something in his pocket that’s not his yet.

“What the hell is this supposed to be?” Éponine mutters beside him and Montparnasse looks up.

She’s trying to assemble the toy and failing.

“Look at the instructions,” Montparnasse says.

“Lame,” she snorts, but picks up the yellow capsule anyway to pull out the folded piece of glossy paper.

Montparnasse assembles the tiny plastic bicycle that was in his egg. Beside him Éponine makes a humming noise of understanding and turns one of her pieces over. It’s a tiny catapult.

“There’s no ammunition,” she complains.

“Thank god,” Montparnasse replies.

“You’re no fun,” she tuts.

They sit side by side in silence for a while. Music and muffled dialogue comes blaring from the other room, sometimes covered up by loud laughter from the boys.

“Did you retake that test yet?” Montparnasse asks, head leaning against the wall, gaze towards the ceiling.

“Nah,” Éponine mutters, playing idly with her catapult. “They always take an age to schedule them.”

“Jerks.”

“Yeah.”

There’s another silence. Montparnasse lets it be.

“What’d you do today?” Éponine asks after a while. If she wants _him_ to talk, she’s _really_ had a bad day.

“Worked,” Montparnasse answers. He pulls a face at the ceiling. “And then had my house turned into a damn nursery.”

“Fuck you, I loaded the dishwasher and everything,” Éponine snarks.

“No, not you guys,” Montparnasse says, looking at her. “Babet brought his kid over.”

“Really?” Éponine says, surprised. “Wow, that’s like, the first time ever, right?”

He nods.

“Damn,” Éponine smiles. “Was he over the moon or what?”

“You could say that,” Montparnasse grins and he pulls out his phone.

Éponine’s eyes light up when she scrolls through the pictures and Montparnasse can’t keep from smirking either.

“Babet’s such a dork with his damn adorable baby,” Éponine says approvingly. “Did Violet drop her off?”

“Yeah,” Montparnasse nods. “It’s still fucking weird between them.”

“I should hope so,” Éponine says. “If I were her I would have kicked Babet’s ass properly.”

“You wouldn’t have gotten knocked up,” Montparnasse points out.

Éponine makes a movement that is half shrug, half shake of the head. “Didn’t need to get knocked up, did I,” she says. “Have four kids to take care of anyway…” She lowers the phone and looks into Montparnasse’s face. There’s a tight line around her mouth.

“They’re _my_ kids,” she says. “Just because they’re my _siblings_ doesn’t mean they’re not my kids.”

Montparnasse looks back at her. “And who had the fucking nerve to tell you they’re not?” he demands, anger slipping into his voice.

“No one,” Éponine grits. “Just… Marcel’s damn mother keeps talking about them as if they’re _his_ kids. And not even all of us, just Juju and Téo.”

“That’s fucking bullshit,” Montparnasse spits. “Why does Mar—”

“This isn’t about him,” Éponine interrupts angrily. “This is about some old bag that thinks my brothers are damn property that becomes yours after you’ve had it in your house for long enough.”

“Bullshit,” Montparnasse repeats.

“Don’t have to fucking tell me,” Éponine grunts.

“Are they just visiting or staying for longer?” Montparnasse asks, frowning. Éponine doesn’t need this kind of shit.

“Just one night,” Éponine sighs. “They’ll be gone tomorrow after lunch.”

Montparnasse nods. “You guys can crash here if you like,” he offers. One of the reasons he wanted this place is because it has enough room to let Éponine and all her siblings sleep over if need be. He’ll deny it until the day he dies, but it is.

A small smile flickers on Éponine’s face. “Much as I’d like to see you get woken up by Juju and Téo bouncing on your stupidly fancy bed…” She shakes her head. “No I should get them home soon. They have school in the morning.”

“When did you get so fucking responsible,” Montparnasse sighs.

“Hell if I know,” she says, rolling her eyes dramatically. She moves as if she wants to get up, but then she lets herself fall back into her former sitting position and suddenly slumps against him, knocking the side of her head against his.

“Ow,” he complains, shoving her with his shoulder.

“Not like there’s anything in there to damage,” Éponine quips.

“You’re a sweetheart, you know that,” Montparnasse snorts and he lets her lean against him for a while longer.

Eventually Éponine gets to her feet and puts the plastic catapult in her pocket. A grin flashes across her face. “Do you keep the toys?” she asks.

Montparnasse gives her an unimpressed stare and doesn’t answer. While she goes into the living room to rally the boys, he puts the jewellery box back in its place. The toy he drops loosely in the drawer. For now.

In the living room the boys are putting on their coats. Montparnasse glances around the room, eyes pausing as they inspect the shelves of his cupboards, and walks up to Gavroche. “How many?” he asks in a low, amused voice.

Gavroche’s face falls. “Two each,” he says, disappointed. “How’d you know?”

“The lid of the teapot is askew,” Montparnasse says. He’s impressed though, six sweets is just modest enough that he might not have noticed them missing.

“Fuck,” Gavroche breathes.

“Watch your mouth,” Montparnasse says approvingly and pulls Gavroche’s hoodie over his eyes.

The boy swats his hands away and grumbles.

Montparnasse turns around to hug Judoc and Matéo with a smirk on his face. He’ll have to find a new hiding place for his candy before their next visit...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to name and include the youngest Thénardiers, I had to.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Montparnasse doesn’t like poetry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains musings on Montparnasse's past. No big warnings, just a heads-up <3

Thursday morning is unexpectedly busy and Montparnasse enjoys the quiet that follows afterwards. He roams around the empty store, appreciating the silence. How long has he been here now? Nine months? Montparnasse holds still in front of an art deco mirror and absentmindedly fixes his hair. This is just a job, just work. But it’s in a place he would have been thrown out of as a kid. Antiques aren’t a very particular passion of his, but beauty is. And the thing about the shop is that it’s beautiful. It’s filled with beautiful, expensive things and that’s the whole point. To be surrounded by beautiful clean lines and expensive materials. Montparnasse had known he wanted that since he was little. Little and being told he couldn’t have those things. Being told he _shouldn’t_ have those things, not even giving him the chance to earn them. As if the people with money and beautiful things had earned them. Montparnasse knows they didn’t.

The treasures in the shop may not be his exactly, but Montparnasse doesn’t scruple to regard them as such. As far as the customers are concerned, they might as well be his. He knows every piece in the store. He speaks with authority and the customers respond to that. It does not matter that all this actually belongs to Mrs Havisham. Except when she’s present of course, which she isn’t on Thursdays. So when she walks in early that afternoon Montparnasse is very surprised and quite disgruntled.

“I wasn’t expecting you, Madame,” he says.

“Someone called yesterday afternoon about the drawing room set,” Mrs Havisham says, adjusting the collar of her blouse.

Montparnasse gives her an incredulous stare.

“Yes,” she says. “ _That_  drawing room set. I told you I’d sell it eventually.”

“All due respect,” Montparnasse sneers. “But I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Mrs Havisham smiles loftily. “I spoke to the man at length, he tells me it’s exactly what he’s been looking for.”

Montparnasse refuses to believe that, since _it_ is a set of mahogany fauteuils and a sofa upholstered with rose patterned velvet in the most deplorable colour yellow he has ever seen. It’s a shame because the general design is quite elegant. The set has been in the store since before he started working here and Montparnasse never passes it without glaring slightly. Only a madman would put something like that in his home.

The shop bell chimes happily and three people talking in hushed voices come in.

“That’ll be them,” Mrs Havisham says in excellent spirits and she goes up to get them. “Monsieur and Madame Myriel?” she says warmly.

Montparnasse winces. Okay, so not a madman, but close enough.

“Monsieur and Mademoiselle,” Myriel replies. “And this is Madame Magloire, who is here to make sure _we_ don’t do anything foolish.”

Montparnasse seriously considers disappearing to the backroom. Just hearing that voice is enough to make him regress to his teenage self. Instead of moving, Montparnasse grits his teeth and stands his ground. This is his shop. He’s not leaving.

“Right this way,” Mrs Havisham says and she leads the way to the left of the store.

Mme Magloire and Myriel’s sister follow, but Montparnasse has already seen Myriel’s eyes wander in his direction. Their eyes meet and Myriel raises his eyebrows in pleasant surprise.

“Hello,” he says, walking up to the counter. “Parnasse, right?”

“Montparnasse,” Montparnasse corrects pointedly.

“My apologies,” Myriel says. “It is good to see you again, Montparnasse.”

Montparnasse makes a movement that is between a nod and a shrug. For a street pastor Myriel wasn’t nearly as bad as he could be, it was just—

“I heard you were doing well,” Myriel says kindly. “Do you like it here?”

“It’s fine,” Montparnasse says stiffly. The look on Myriel’s face is painfully familiar. It’s free from judgement, even free from pity, but it’s filled with something Montparnasse resents almost as much in strangers: concern. He waits for the question he knows will come.

“Are you still in touch with Claquesous?”

“Yes,” Montparnasse replies blankly.

Myriel gives him a careful look. “And is—”

”He’s fine too,” Montparnasse grunts.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Myriel says and he looks it. He also looks like he would like to ask how fine exactly and where they live and _how_ they live.

Montparnasse clenches his teeth. Myriel is smiling. He’s always smiling. With a great effort he pulls his face into a polite expression and says, with just a little too much sarcasm: “Shall I show you to your new drawing room set, Monsieur?”

Myriel’s eyes twinkle. “If you would be so kind.”

Montparnasse walks with him and Myriel says cheerfully:

“If you’ve worked here since you dropped off my radar you must have quite a lot of experience by now.”

Montparnasse hums indistinctly. He hasn’t been here nearly that long, but he’s not going to correct him.

“The new furniture may call for new carpets too,” Myriel says merrily. “What would you recommend to pair it with?”

“An open fire,” Montparnasse deadpans.

Myriel laughs warmly, not offended in the least. He always was like that, impossible to insult.

Mrs Havisham and the two women are all standing around the horrid sofa and chairs.

“Oh, Charles,” Mlle Myriel says, turning around with a quiet smile overspreading her whole face. “They are beautiful, just what I imagined.”

Montparnasse stares at her with barely hidden astonishment.

“High time that your dreams became a reality, my dear Baptistine,” Myriel smiles.

This woman needs better dreams, Montparnasse thinks, but the look on her face is unmistakable: it’s covetous. Or it would be if her face was less gentle. So Montparnasse stands back in haughty amazement as Mrs Havisham sells the unsellable drawing room set to a glowing Baptistine Myriel.

“I shall have it delivered to your house tomorrow,” she assures her when everything has been agreed upon.

“I can hardly wait,” Baptistine says softly and Montparnasse thinks he even sees a blush on her pale cheeks.

“You’ve done your waiting, ma’am,” Mme Magloire says. “More than your fair share.”

“That she has,” Myriel says fondly. He pays Mrs Havisham the full price, refusing the discount she offers him. “It has been very long since I bought my sister a present,” he says. “Too long.”

“Charles…” Baptistine smiles, shaking her head, but Mme Magloire looks as if it’s politeness and affection alone that keep her from agreeing very decidedly.

The two women thank Mrs Havisham warmly and wish Montparnasse a good day before walking towards the door. Myriel echoes their thanks, but gives Montparnasse one last quiet look. “I would ask you to give my regards to Claquesous,” he says, a smile playing round his mouth. ”But I think he’d prefer never to hear from me again.”

The corner of Montparnasse’s mouth twitches. He’s probably right about that.

“Good day, Montparnasse,” Myriel nods.

He nods back and watches him go. Vaguely he considers that if Myriel really wanted to know, he technically should have access to people he could have asked about Claquesous. The people at the clinic for a start, privacy being dead and all that—

“Nice people,” Mrs Havisham remarks, breaking in on his thoughts.

Montparnasse nods again, still frowning slightly at the now closed door.

Mrs Havisham hums, satisfied with a good sale, and retreats to the backroom. She doesn’t ask how he knows Myriel. There’s a reason Montparnasse gets along with her.

It was weird seeing Myriel. He’s definitely not telling the others. Montparnasse shifts uncomfortably behind the counter. Myriel belongs to the time when he, Claquesous and Babet hung out on the street. Staying out all night because they didn’t want to go home or had no home to go to. For a moment Montparnasse sinks into his memory. There’s bruised ribs, police sirens, feeling so tired he wants to throw up, being picked up from the station by his weary foster parents, the taste of blood on his teeth, being wet through and through, being ice cold. But there’s also standing on a rooftop yelling triumphantly into the dark, scaling a wall, running like hell and getting away, the glitter of stolen silver, Babet daring him to throw his knife further, Claquesous kicking the shit out of someone a head taller than him, adrenaline burning in his veins.

Thinking back on it now Montparnasse is not nostalgic, but he doesn’t regret any of it either. That was then, this is now, no use playing favourites. What had he told Myriel? Fine. He was fine. Well, he is. They all are. Maybe not Myriel’s definition of fine, but at least where they choose to be. Montparnasse frowns at the world in general and thinks of their house. Claquesous’ music blasting through modified speakers, Babet’s crumpled scripts all over the place, Gueulemer under his car with tools scattered across the sidewalk, a pair of his newly acquired dress shirts, laid out on his bed to be altered just a little so they fit just right. All those things actually feel normal now. When did they become normal? When did that other stuff become the past? He hasn’t seriously thought about any of this since, well, since he first walked the doors of the antique shop knowing he’d come back to work there, he supposes.

His thoughts are still preoccupied with the past and its strange contrast with the present when the shop bell rings. Which is why Montparnasse is completely taken by surprise when a very familiar vision of copper curls comes sweeping into the store and up to the counter.

“Hi! It’s me…Jehan.”

Montparnasse stares. Because, yes, he can see that. It’s definitely Jehan, whose name Montparnasse has _not_ forgotten and who looks very much like they did last time. Less nymph-like maybe, but equally eccentrically dressed. They are wearing a loosely knitted top that isn’t short enough to be a crop top and not long enough to reach all the way to their jeans. They are also wearing a sash with appliqué flowers like a belt. The petals are a burst of colour against their fair skin… Montparnasse tears his eyes away and looks into their face instead. That isn’t much better. Inexplicably, there is glitter on their cheek. Montparnasse folds his hands behind his back. He has a sudden urge to brush the glitter away and he never was particularly good at keeping his hands off shiny things.

“Hi,” he says, trying for his normal customer voice. “Are you here for something specific?”

“I’m here to see you?” Jehan says, a little awkwardly.

Montparnasse grimaces. Like that wasn’t fucking obvious. Still, Montparnasse hadn’t expected them to just come out and say it. Who does that. “Yeah, I guessed,” he says. Then he narrows his eyes a little. “How did you know to come here?”

“I didn’t,” Jehan says. “But you said that you worked in an antique store, so…”

“This is not the only antique store on the block,” he points out. These things are like toadstools, if there’s one, there’s more of them.

“No, but this is the only one that’s in between my community centre and the bus stop,” Jehan says. “Oh, no, I mean my community centre is in between here and the bus stop. And since it was nearly six when I met you there last time—”

“You figured I was on my way home from work,” Montparnasse interrupts. “Fair enough.” He’s not sure if he’s weirded out or impressed. Considering Jehan looks extremely shy all of a sudden, probably impressed. They don’t look like they’d have the guts to do something like this.

Jehan is turning red under his appraising look, but suddenly they pull their phone from their pocket and hastily swipe through some photos. “I wanted to show you what I did with the mirror,” they say. “Here.” They slide the phone towards him over the counter.

Montparnasse looks at the picture. It’s the mirror he helped Jehan rescue from the dumpster. Except pieced together and— Montparnasse stares in amazement. The mirror looks like it’s bleeding gold from every fracture.

”I glued it and dripped gold ink into the seams,” Jehan says happily. “Do you like it?”

Montparnasse doesn’t answer. He studies the photo. The mirror doesn’t reflect a proper image anymore. The reflection of Jehan with their phone is broken up and distorted. But the gold gleams on the glass and every shard catches the light in a slightly different way.

“It’s beautiful,” he says honestly.

Jehan’s smile sets off sparks in their hazel eyes. “Thank you,” they beam. “I’m glad you like it. I mean, since you helped me and all.”

Montparnasse lifts an eyebrow. “You came all this way just to show me?” he asks. He doesn’t believe that.

“What all this way?” Jehan says, taking their phone back. “I’ve just been to my pottery class.”

Okay, that makes sense. Montparnasse can’t help but grin though. “Your pottery class at the community centre you stole the mirror from,” he says.

“You said yourself it wasn’t _really_ stealing,” Jehan says, smiling a little wider.

“I did,” Montparnasse hums. He looks at them and thinks, involuntarily, that Jehan is much prettier than the mirror. And here he thought his mind must have been playing tricks on him, making the memory prettier than the reality. It hadn’t. “Well,” he says, clearing his throat. “Thanks for showing me.”

Jehan nods and puts their phone back in their pocket.

Montparnasse watches them turn around uncertainly and yes, he _does_ want to say something to make them stay a little longer, but he _won’t_.

Jehan turns back to the counter, cheeks still pink. “Do you have jewellery here?”

“What kind of jewellery,” Montparnasse asks. Is Jehan just looking for an excuse to stay? They should go, they really should.

“The Victorian kind?” Jehan says.

Montparnasse slants his head. “Not much,” he says. “Are you interested in something specific?”

“I like memorial pieces,” Jehan says, a bit of genuine eagerness shimmering through their shyness.

Montparnasse is surprised. Jehan doesn’t seem like the type to like that sort of stuff. Too creepy. Then again, they do study history. Montparnasse resents remembering that. “Not sure if we have anything like that,” he says. “We have a little silverwork…”

“Can I see it?” Jehan asks.

Montparnasse smirks. “This is a store,” he says. “I do work here to sell things.”

Jehan turns red again, but they lift their chin and say primly: “In that case, I’d like to see your jewellery selection.”

Great, now they’re messing with him on purpose. With little lights in their eyes. Montparnasse remembers them squealing with excitement on top of a dumpster and puts on a simpering smile. “But of course, potential customer. Right this way.”

Jehan looks so pleased that Montparnasse cannot repress a grin. He shows them to the jewellery display. There’s nothing really special in it right now.

“That’s a pretty cameo,” Jehan points.

“Imitation,” Montparnasse says.

“Hm,” they hum, bending down to look at the lower shelves.

Montparnasse stands back a bit and wonders if Jehan really came here on a whim after their pottery class or if they planned this.

“No,” Jehan says. “Pity. I was hoping for a ring or locket with a lock of hair.”

“Those are fairly rare,” Montparnasse says.

“Yes and some people throw away the hair before putting them on display,” Jehan says indignantly.

“Tragic,” Montparnasse hums. Jehan is well on the way to becoming the strangest person he’s ever met. For now Claquesous still wins. Just about. He gives Jehan an amused look. “Anything else you want to see?”

Jehan hesitates. “No,” they say, thoughtfully. “But it’s a very pretty store…”

“You’re very welcome to look around,” Montparnasse offers. He’s just being polite, that’s all. Polite to the pretty redhead with the even prettier blush.

Because the blush is back, creeping up from Jehan’s neck before they walk past him with a surprisingly decided: “I think I will.”

Montparnasse leaves them to themselves, but it’s incredibly hard not to watch them. Jehan scurries through the store like a curious bird. They study every piece with genuine interest and the entire time they are doing so Montparnasse is involved in an increasingly frustrating argument with his own better judgement. Eventually Jehan comes back to the counter, looking very pleased.

“The ebony cabinet is my favourite,” they say.

Montparnasse knows which one they mean, it’s gorgeous. “Was that what you were doing?” he asks. “Choosing a favourite?”

“Of course, “ Jehan says. “I hope it finds a good home. Someplace where it’s happy.”

“A place where the cabinet is happy?” Montparnasse repeats, not hiding his amusement.

“Yes,” Jehan nods. “Happy.”

“Right,” Montparnasse hums.

Jehan looks at him and he looks back. Waiting. There’s an odd silence.

“Was there anything else?” Montparnasse asks.

Jehan looks down. Doing so casts a shadow on their freckled cheeks.

“Or did you have any more bad poetry to compare me to?” It slips out before Montparnasse can help himself.

Jehan’s eyes snap back up. “Bad poetry?” they echo.

“Yes,” Montparnasse says and because he might as well now, he pulls out the vintage volume of Shakespeare from where he left it behind the register this time. Jehan checked a map to see what store he worked at, he can afford to let them know he read Shakespeare because of them. “Sonnet ninety-one wasn’t it?” he says critically. “It sucks.”

Jehan looks genuinely offended. “Just because you don’t like the subject doesn’t mean it’s bad,” they protest.

“I disagree,” Montparnasse says blankly.

Jehan’s face flits through uncertainty and confusion to settle on sincere indignation.

Montparnasse keeps a straight face, but he’s _enjoying_ this. He’s not even sure why. There’s just something about the bristling energy that is suddenly all around Jehan that is extremely compelling.

“Give me that,” Jehan demands and they hold out their hand. Suddenly they sound like the nymph again, voice full of unchecked emotion.

Montparnasse slides the book over to them.

Jehan leafs through it determinedly, taps a page and puts the book down in front of Montparnasse again. “There,” they say. “Read that one.”

Montparnasse pulls a face at Jehan and looks at the page. Sonnet 147. Why don’t these things have titles? He reads it through. It’s better, but still, sonnets, Shakespeare. He looks up into Jehan’s expectant face.

“Well?” they say.

“It’s not worse,” Montparnasse says. He can’t help it, they look so _ruffled_. So _passionate_. Like they did that very first moment he saw them.

Jehan almost huffs out loud.

“Sorry,” Montparnasse grins. “Just not my thing I guess.”

“Just because you don’t like Shakespeare doesn’t mean you don’t like poetry!”

Montparnasse watches in fascination. All their shyness is gone now. Done away with in their chivalrous defence of poetry. Poetry which Montparnasse likes fine, he only meant to insult Shakespeare a little. But instead of saying that, he shrugs, if only to see Jehan toss their hair back indignantly, which they do.

“If you think you don’t like poetry, you just haven’t found the right poetry yet,” they declare.

Montparnasse leans his chin on his hand. “Why do I get the feeling you’ll try to find it for me?”

Jehan’s eyes spark defiantly. “You think I can’t?”

“Oh, I would never be so bold as to go about making wild statements like that,” he says. “But just so you know, we close in an hour.”

Jehan shakes their head resolutely. “I’m not going to stumble through some google search and have you read it off a screen,” they say. “If I’m going to defend poetry I’ll do it properly. I’ll come back next week with something you’ll _have_ to like.”

Montparnasse had not expected that and by the startled look on their face, neither had Jehan. Montparnasse smiles to mask his own surprise. “Well, you’re welcome to try,” he says amusedly.

“I will,” Jehan says, managing to mix nerves and determination on their face in the most creative way. They shuffle their feet for a short moment and then say with righted shoulders. “I should go, I’m keeping you from your work.”

They’re really not, there aren’t any other customers so there isn’t any work to do. But Montparnasse agrees, they should go. They really shouldn’t be here. “Very considerate of you,” he hums. “Goodbye then.”

“Goodbye,” Jehan says. “Have a nice evening.” That last sentiment sounded genuinely composed. Maybe being polite is more important to them than being nervous.

“Thank you, Jehan,” Montparnasse smirks. That is actually the first time he has said their name out loud and he likes how it rolls off his tongue.

Jehan doesn’t even seem to notice that he hasn’t exactly wished them a nice evening back. They just nod and hurry towards the door. Montparnasse watches them go with a bemused expression on his face. Well, that was different. Montparnasse grins and shakes his head. He doesn’t think Jehan will actually come back. By the time they’ve run home they will have come to their senses and decide to leave it at this little adventure of two parts. They’re a sweet, innocent little thing and their self-preservation instinct should kick in any moment now and tell them to stay away from him. Still, this was fun. If anything Jehan seems to have a knack for turning ordinary days into special ones.

Apparently Montparnasse’s amusement his still visible on his face when he comes home, because Gueulemer, who is prodding at the engine of his car in the street out front, looks up at him and says: “You look smug.” He smirks and adds: “More than usual.”

Montparnasse shrugs. “Cute customer at the store.”

Gueulemer snorts. “Doesn’t your boss tell you off for flirting with the customers?”

“I can do whatever I want if it sells more antiques,” Montparnasse smirks.

“I’m sure it sells,” Gueulemer hums. “Question is _what_.”

“Fuck you,” Montparnasse says light-heartedly. He pulls out his cigarettes and offers Gueulemer one.

He takes it, but sticks it behind his ear while he closes the hood of the car first. “Babet is at the theatre,” he grunts. “Sous is—” One of his enormous hands gestures vaguely. “—out.” He straightens up and leans back against the car. “I’m cooking. You can join.”

Montparnasse makes an appreciative sound. Although he proudly insists that he is by far the best chef of the four of them, he does admit that Gueulemer is best at actually cooking. He lights Gueulemer’s cigarette and they both lean against the car for a while.

“Oh,” Gueulemer hums. “That Feuilly guy came by the workshop for some hinges. He says you can pick up that chest of drawers next week.”

“Hm,” Montparnasse nods. Involuntarily he thinks of Myriel again. He wonders why Feuilly doesn’t make him regress to being fourteen and angry. But then again, Feuilly is another one of Montparnasse’s exceptions.

Whenever someone asks Montparnasse how he knows Feuilly, which doesn’t happen very often, he just says that he restores furniture for Mrs Havisham’s shop. That is true. The reason that he does this, and Montparnasse never sees fit to mention this fact, is because Montparnasse recommended him to her.

Whenever someone asks _Feuilly_ how he knows Montparnasse, he tells them they are foster brothers. Montparnasse knows this, because he has heard him say it and as far as he’s concerned _that_ is not true. Feuilly was eighteen and already on his way out when Montparnasse joined his foster family. He was fourteen, pissed off at the world and determined not to listen to his foster parents or any of their goody two-shoes kids. Feuilly had caught him climbing out of the window one night and instead of snitching he had said: “You can reach the balcony if you stand on the fence.”

Montparnasse hadn’t really understood that, because Feuilly _was_ a goody two-shoes. He was going to study woodworking and the foster parents kept saying how proud they were of him. But no matter how obnoxious Montparnasse was, he never took the bait and when he left to go live on his own a few months later, he told him:

“If you ever need a hand with anything, you’ve got my number.”

“I don’t though,” Montparnasse snarked.

“Yes you do, I put it in your phone,” Feuilly smiled. “Your real one.”

Montparnasse grimaced. His foster father had given him an old work phone. A huge thing you could probably kill someone with if you threw it at them. Montparnasse’s real phone was a lot better, except he really wasn’t supposed to have it.

Feuilly had laughed at his expression and gone off to hug their foster parents.

Montparnasse had not called him, but they texted. And they both just sort of…showed up sometimes. Almost as if they were an accidental presence in each other’s lives. Montparnasse would show up at the workshop Feuilly trained at. Feuilly would show up at the snack bar Montparnasse hung out after school. Of course Montparnasse had gone to the party for Feuilly’s first proper job, but only because he had nothing better to do. And Feuilly had been at Montparnasse’s graduation, even though Montparnasse hadn’t invited him, because he didn’t care.

Just like he hadn’t cared about the blurry years during which they had actually of lost sight of each other for a while. He had cared so little that when the blurry years abruptly ended, he went to find Feuilly as soon as he didn’t look like literal shit anymore. So little that when he started working for Mrs Havisham and she had complained that she needed a new craftsman to fix woodwork and upholstery, Montparnasse had told her very indifferently that he knew someone.

“Someone good?” she asked critically.

“Better than the idiots you have doing it now,” he sniffed.

Mrs Havisham had decided to trust him and that was that. Feuilly’s work was beyond reproach and he had been her go-to for fixing up new arrivals ever since. So naturally Montparnasse was the one to go over there whenever they did have something to do for him. If he was actually glad to see him that was completely coincidental.

When Montparnasse goes to Feuilly’s workshop that Tuesday their meeting goes just like it always does. Feuilly’s colleagues look up when he enters and go back to work when they see it’s him. Montparnasse ignores them and waits for Feuilly to put his tools down.

“Right on time, Parnasse,” he says cheerfully. “I finished your piece this morning.” He gets up and looks him up and down. “Nice jacket.”

Montparnasse rolls his eyes. Feuilly still prefers his leather jackets over his suit jackets and even though Montparnasse knows this, Feuilly makes a point of complimenting him on the latter. “Nice beard,” he retorts.

“Thanks,” Feuilly grins.

Montparnasse thinks Feuilly looks a lot better clean-shaven and he knows it.

Feuilly takes him to the storage room where the Georgian mahogany chest of drawers is waiting. Montparnasse strokes the polished wood.

“It’s a beauty,” Feuilly says lovingly. “A joy to work on.”

“Looks a lot better now than when I brought it,” Montparnasse hums.

Feuilly looks pleased, but doesn’t comment.

The two of them carry the chest of drawers to the car Montparnasse drove there.

“Got anything interesting planned this week?” Feuilly asks as they close the doors.

Montparnasse gives him a suspicious glance. “I’m not coming to your weird seminars,” he says. Honestly, he doesn’t know where Feuilly finds the time to keep going to weird academic nonsense.

“It was just a question,” Feuilly laughs.

“Yeah, I don’t trust you,” Montparnasse grimaces. “And no, not really.” This week there’s not much of anything going on. Unless Jehan really does come by on Thursday, which they won’t.

♦

Montparnasse is wrong. As evidenced by Jehan almost marching into the store that Thursday, clad in dungarees and a very psychedelic crop top. Montparnasse is frowning at them as they approach and it’s not just because he really didn’t expect to see them again, but certainly also because he _cannot_ get his head around the fact that someone dressed so terribly can look so good. For a moment Montparnasse allows himself to actually imagine what they’d look like in a proper outfit and he’s suddenly very glad Jehan dresses as badly as they do.

“I have a poem,” Jehan declares by way of greeting and they hold out a big envelope.

Montparnasse doesn’t really know how to respond to that. “Okay,” he says and he puts out his hand.

Jehan gives him the envelope, but when he opens it they protest: “Don’t read it now!”

He raises his eyebrows at them. “Why not?”

“You should read it when you’re alone,” Jehan says earnestly .”When you can appreciate it properly. Preferably at sunset.”

Montparnasse gives them a blank look. Are they for real? “At sunset,” he echoes.

Jehan colours a little, but they give a slightly defensive shrug and say: “Or not. Do whatever you like. Just, read it for yourself. This isn’t for me you know, it’s for you.”

Somehow Montparnasse really doubts that. Unless Jehan honestly sees it as their duty to convert every one they meet to poetry. Then again, he’s not really able to say what they are supposed to be getting out of this either. They’re not exactly flirting with him after all. Which is a _good_ thing, he has to remind himself. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll read it later then.”

“Good,” Jehan nods. The satisfied look on their face lasts for three seconds tops before their cheeks colour again and they look away from Montparnasse’s face. “Well,” they mutter. “I hope you’ll give it a chance… Bye.” And with that they abruptly turn around and nearly run out of the store.

Montparnasse watches them go in astonishment. This was weird, even compared to the last two times they met. He looks down at the envelope. Read it at sunset, that’s ridiculous. He folds the envelope open and pulls out a paper. It’s just out of curiosity. He can hardly _not_ read something that was especially picked for and brought to him. Personally. By someone like Jehan. To his further surprise the poem inside is not printed out, but handwritten. The fancy kind of handwritten too. With loops and curls and big capital letters. Surely Jehan didn’t write down this whole poem especially for him? Montparnasse really doesn’t know how to feel about that. Giving someone handwritten poems is… Well that would be flirting, wouldn’t it? Not the kind Montparnasse does, but still.

The title on top of the page reads “Immortal Sails, by Alfred Noyes”. Montparnasse has never heard that name before and the poem is new to him. He’d probably like it too if he could give it his full attention; it has short, melodic sentences and the words fit together like they ought. But as he reads them Montparnasse can’t get past the thoroughly weirded out feeling that accompanies holding this handwritten paper. Jehan came back to see him two times. Once with a poem. Was that supposed to mean something? Montparnasse had already decided not to go after them, no matter how pretty they were. No matter how much better they’d look _without_ those awful clothes. He frowns and shakes his head. No, he decided to leave the nymph alone and he’s sticking with that. He’s probably wrong about Jehan’s intentions. He has to be. No one that turns red at a little joke would be bold enough to present actual hand-written love poems to someone they were interested in. Montparnasse glances at the poem again and makes a confused noise. No, none of this makes any sense. Unless… Unless Jehan is just friendly? Friendly and passionate about poetry? He helped them get back something they valued and that – wrongly – made them like him. At least enough to make them care about his opinion on what they did with the mirror and then his insulting poetry was enough of a reason to start whatever was happening now. Because it certainly is happening. Jehan didn’t say they’d be back next week, but Montparnasse is almost certain they will be.

Montparnasse puts the poem back in the envelope and puts it on the shelf in the backroom where he keeps some of his things. If he takes it home he might forget to bring it next week. Because Jehan needs to have this back. No matter if it was written for him or not, Montparnasse is not keeping this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baptistine finally getting her drawing room set is a present for my beloved sister and patient beta <3
> 
> *[Shakespeare’s 147th sonnet](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/56227/sonnet-147-my-love-is-as-a-fever-longing-still%20)  
> *[Immortal Sails by Alfred Noyes](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/47570)
> 
> My undying adoration to all of you who have left comments, here and on tumblr. You're the best!


	4. Montparnasse appreciates shabby décors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it, here is some [ Jehan POV for this story ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14012736/chapters/32270301)!

It’s Saturday evening and Montparnasse is scrolling through what is currently his favourite fashion blog. This month’s Vogue is lying next to him on the couch, opened on a glamour shot of a model in clothes that Montparnasse knows would look better on him. It’s a good issue though. The cover had been promising so he had paid for it too. If he takes offence to something on the cover, he’s still going to read it, but he refuses to spend money on it. That seems only fair to him. Besides, swiping fashion magazines is kind of nostalgic by now.

Heavy footsteps thump down the stairs and hold still outside his door.

“What is it, Gueul?” Montparnasse raises his voice, eyes never leaving the screen.

“I’m going to Louison’s,” Gueulemer’s voice rumbles from the hallway. “Coming?”

Montparnasse glances around. He doesn’t have anything to do tonight and he’s kind of bored. “Sure,” he calls back.

“If you’re trying on outfits first I’m leaving without you,” Gueulemer warns and he continues down the stairs.

Montparnasse snorts and walks into his bedroom in quest of shoes. The day he needs to _change_ to be dressed well enough to go to Louison’s he’ll request to be shot.

Louison’s is a bar two metro stops away from their house that has, because of convenience and a strong preference from Gueulemer, become their regular hangout. Gueulemer likes it because it’s small and usually pretty quiet for a bar. It is quiet because Louison, who bought the place about two years ago, keeps it that way. There is only one rule at Louison’s: No Shenanigans. She even put a sign above the bar. What counts as shenanigans depends on her mood, but it definitely includes any form of live music, giving speeches, or making puns. Montparnasse is not so particular about peace and quiet as Gueulemer, but he appreciates having a place to go for a drink and nothing else, with no people around to see him let his guard down. Louison’s is that place.

When he makes his way down the stairs, Montparnasse is surprised to see Claquesous and Babet coming out of their apartment. They usually work on Friday nights.

“The club got shut down yesterday,” Babet explains, putting on a denim jacket that Montparnasse does not approve of. “Investigation.”

“Bummer,” Montparnasse hums.

“It’s only for a couple days,” Babet shrugs, but Claquesous looks really irritated.

“Morons,” he grunts.

“Don’t you get paid half upfront nowadays?” Montparnasse jokes, pulling open the front door. Gueulemer is already waiting outside, staring at the darkening sky.

“Not the point,” Claquesous mutters resentfully.

Montparnasse shuts up and so do the other two. There’s no talking to Claquesous when he’s in a mood like this and he’ll get over it once he’s resigned himself to missing out on spending a night on stage.

“She’s never gonna get a new sign is she?” Babet remarks when they arrive at the bar. The faded sign still says “O’Sullivan’s”, in traditionally tacky ‘pretend Irish pub’ taste, but it’s been ages since anyone called the place anything but “Louison’s”.

Gueulemer enters first. He has to duck to fit through the door and Montparnasse, who is right behind him, immediately hears Louison’s voice ring out:

“About time! I’ve been hoarding a new bock for you, Gueul.”

Montparnasse doesn’t hear Gueulemer’s answer, because he’s just spotted a new horrid armchair with floral upholstery.

“Christ, Louison,” he swears. “Are you running a bar or a thrift shop?” The place is tiny and doesn’t have real tables. Apart from the bar, the seating area is filled with old mismatched fauteuils, two-seaters and side tables.

“What?” Louison says innocently. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s vile,” Montparnasse says bluntly.

“You should be more appreciative,” Babet grins, making his way to their usual corner while Gueulemer leans on the bar. “You work in an antique store.”

“Yeah, so I know how to tell quality from crap,” Montparnasse snarks. He lets himself fall into a tattered leather armchair.

“Is the dynamic duo coming too?” Louison asks, pouring them their usual drinks.

Montparnasse snorts. That’s how she’s started to refer to Brujon and Fauntleroy.

“Nope, the ingénues aren’t in today,” Babet says. He’s draped sideways across a fauteuil that looks like it might fall apart any moment.

Louison snorts at the nicknames and looks a little relieved .  Ever since Brujon turned eighteen he likes to follow them here and last time he came in Fauntleroy came with. Turns out most of the things Fauntleroy thinks are a good idea count as shenanigans.

Gueulemer sits down with a beer for him and Babet and Louison follows with two glasses of wine.

“Is it a cocktail night?” she enquires, placing the white in front of Claquesous and the red in front of Montparnasse.

Claquesous makes an indifferent noise and slumps on the couch next to Gueulemer, draining half his glass in one draught.

“Hey,” Louison admonishes. “Whatever it is, you know my cocktails will cure it.” Louison mixes excellent drinks. Only none of them have names. They are numbered instead. No one knows why. Whenever someone asks her, she just mutters darkly about puns. Babet and Gueulemer don’t care for cocktails, but Montparnasse and Claquesous do.

“Make him something fizzy, Louison,” Montparnasse says languidly. “He’s sulky tonight.”

“Shove off,” Claquesous grunts.

Montparnasse rolls his eyes. “I’ll even pay,” he sneers. “How does that sound?”

“Like you’re slightly less of a jerk,” Claquesous hums.

Louison has already walked away. She’s too used to their bickering to pay it any mind nowadays.

“Unexpected night off,” Babet grins. “What’s not to like.” He looks around the bar with a fond expression. It’s empty apart from the four of them.

“At least you have something to do tomorrow,” Claquesous sighs.

“Yeah,” Babet says absentmindedly. Suddenly he brightens up. “We’re starting Two Gentlemen of Verona next month,” he says. “You guys should come.” By ‘we’ he means the company playing in the theatre where he is a part-time stage hand until he can convince them to actually let him do the sound or light design.

Montparnasse sighs heavily. “Great,” he says. “More Shakespeare.”

“We haven’t played Shakespeare in ages,” Babet points out.

Right, his recent preoccupation with sonnets isn’t common knowledge. For just a second Montparnasse is thrown slightly off balance and then he makes a vague sound and mutters something about any Shakespeare being too much for him. This makes Babet go on the defensive and argue in favour of theatre, which means no one else has to talk for a while.

They listen to Babet rant until Louison returns with something lemony and bubbly for Claquesous and another round of the same for the others.

“Very nice, this,” Gueulemer remarks, tapping his now empty beer bottle. It’s the first thing he’s said since he sat down.

“I thought you’d like it,” Louison says cheerfully and she hands him another one.

Gueulemer smiles at her.

“Blatant favouritism,” Montparnasse reproaches, handing the cocktail to Claquesous, who takes it with obvious satisfaction.

“Gueul doesn’t insult my furniture,” Louison quips. “And he keeps you lot in check for me.” As she turns round Montparnasse notices for the first time that she is wearing her thick hair in a braid tonight. He smiles.

“What’s that smirk for?” Claquesous asks. He’s almost sitting up straight now, and is looking at Montparnasse over the edge of his glass.

“You and your fizz induced recovery,” Montparnasse replies without missing a beat.

Claquesous scoffs. “The show I planned was _good_ ,” he grunts. “I’m pissed it got cancelled, okay?”

Babet hums sympathetically and Montparnasse sits back comfortably. The others don’t need to know about Jehan. Not that there is anything to know about Jehan. They’re only someone he’s seen three times. Someone he’ll probably see again next Thursday. Not that he’s looking forward to that or anything. That’d be pretty absurd. Looking forward to seeing someone he hardly knows, preposterous.

♦♦♦

That Thursday Jehan is blown into the shop by a strong gust of wind that has made their already eccentric appearance even wilder. Their curls are thoroughly mussed and tussled, but Montparnasse is forced to conclude that they are still distractingly attractive. That being said, he was expecting them this time, which makes it at least a little easier.

“And?” Jehan says as soon as they reach the counter. “Did you read it?”

He nods, amused by the amount of eagerness in their voice.

“Did you like it?” Jehan asks, almost impatiently.

Montparnasse slants his head. He’s read Immortal Sails more than once by now and it really is quite good. But if he tells Jehan that the game is over. This feels like a game, to him at least, and the way Jehan is standing in front of him – colour slightly heightened, but eyes fixed on him in determination – is not exactly an incentive to end it so soon. “It’s okay,” he shrugs.

Jehan presses their lips into a thin line. They look nearly as indignant as when Montparnasse first met them. “Poetry is never _okay_ ,” they say reproachfully. “If you hate it, just say you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it,” Montparnasse says amusedly.

“Well, you should,” Jehan says firmly. “Poetry is about _strong_ emotions. I’m sure Alfred had much rather you’d hate his work than call it _okay_.”

The corners of Montparnasse’s mouth twitch. Jehan talks about the poet like he is a close friend. Instead of defending his lack of strong emotions, he says: “It was very prettily written though.” He really wants to find out if they did it themself.

“Oh,” Jehan says, indignant passion falling away into bashfulness. “Thanks. I— I do calligraphy sometimes and I like doing poems as warmup pieces.”

So they did make it themself. That’s kind of special. But it also means they didn’t write that whole thing down just for him, which is a relief. “If that’s your warmup you must be good,” he says casually.

Jehan looks like they don’t know what to say to that and look away. They really are a very odd mix of contradictions, Montparnasse thinks. A very _cute_ mix of contradictions. He clears his throat. “I’ve got your envelope in the back, I’ll get it for you.”

When he comes back, Jehan is holding a similar envelope. “Trade you,” they say.

“You came prepared,” Montparnasse smirks, exchanging his envelope for theirs.

“You should read these ones at night,” they instruct.

He glances at them. It’s clear they really mean it.

Jehan gives him an accusing look. “You didn’t read the other one at sunset, did you.”

“No,” Montparnasse says. “No I didn’t.”

“You should have,” Jehan says feelingly. “And you should read these one at night.”

“These?” he echoes the plural expression.

“There’s three,” they say. Clearly they felt the need to scale up their attack.

Montparnasse turns the envelope over in his hands. “Who by?” he asks. He wonders if Jehan is going to run out the door any time soon like they did last time. They seem a lot less skittish this time around though.

“Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,” Jehan replies. “Pablo Neruda and John Keats.”

“I've heard of the last one,” Montparnasse hums.

“I should hope so,” Jehan huffs.

Montparnasse smirks. “We can’t all be literature students,” he says.

Jehan glances at him as if they think they’ve offended him, so Montparnasse grins a little wider to show that isn’t the case. He has never really had the patience for schooling and he’s not about to feel guilty for that.

They look away. “I study history actually,” they mutter.

“I know,” Montparnasse says. “You told me the first time we met.” They should know he remembers.

“Right…” Jehan says.

Montparnasse is pretty sure this is the moment where they’re starting to consider running away and for some reason he finds himself searching for something to say so they won’t. “Why these poems?” he asks.

“Hm?” Jehan hums, eyes darting back to his face.

“Why did you pick these three?” he repeats, tapping the envelope. “I won’t open it yet, but why these?”

Jehan shakes their head. “I can’t tell you what I like about them until you’ve read them yourself,” they insist.

“I might like them better if I knew,” Montparnasse coaxes.

“That wouldn’t be fair,” Jehan says, folding their arms, but their eyes are shining pleasantly.

“And you wouldn’t cheat, even in the interest of poetry?” Montparnasse says, making his voice just a touch dramatic.

Jehan smiles. “Especially not when it comes to poetry,” they say.

The shop bell rings and to Montparnasse’s great annoyance two people come in.

“I should go,” Jehan says hastily. “I don’t want to keep you from your work.” That’s what they said last time…

Montparnasse nods. He still doesn’t want them to go, but he’s not going to find an excuse to make them stay. He’ll probably be busy with these customers until closing anyway. And they’ll come back…

“I’ll see you next week,” Jehan says, that determination back in their voice. “And _please_ read them at night.”

“I’ll consider it,” Montparnasse says.

Jehan shoots him a look that is almost a glare and turns away.

“Bye, Jehan,” Montparnasse grins.

They look back, curls swishing around their face, and smile. “Bye, Parnasse!”

The door has closed with a merry ring of the bell before Montparnasse has even realised they already dropped using his full name. He normally hates it when people do that uninvited…

♦♦♦

Babet and Claquesous are arguing about something that is not interesting enough to keep Montparnasse’s attention. It’s only Saturday tonight. That means next Thursday is almost as far away as it can be. And that, he is willing to admit now, is a problem. He’s so damn absent-minded it’s getting annoying. His head is full of shards of poetry. Full of Jehan. He tried, he really did, but Montparnasse has failed magnificently in not wanting them to come back. Them coming back next week has become…important to him. Annoyingly important. It’s _distracting_.

If it was just the poetry stuck in his head, he could probably deal with it. But he cannot think those words without seeing Jehan before him instantly. When he looks at the letters, he can see them writing them. It doesn’t matter if the words are Keats’ or Shelley’s or Neruda’s, to Montparnasse they are all Jehan’s now. Because those words sound like them. They are all soft, just like the loopy letters on the many pages. That’s the thing about Jehan, he thinks. They are probably the softest person he’s ever met. It makes sense the poems they like are all about light and beauty. It is not very likely Jehan would enjoy any of Montparnasse’s favourites. He likes Von Eichendorff and Baudelaire and Rimbaud. Montparnasse stares into the distance, his friends still bickering in the background. Maybe he should just _tell_ Jehan that. Get it over with. But if he wanted that, he could have told the truth and admitted that some of the poems they had brought him are still humming in the back of his mind. Not in their entirety, but certain lines. That sonnet that was originally supposed to be in Spanish still haunts him. He did read it at night. Only he could hardly get past the first verse because of the way the words clung to him. But this cannot go on forever, Montparnasse knows that. Whatever Jehan is trying to do, whatever keeps them coming back, it’s bound to fade eventually. It _has_ to.

“ _Parnasse_.”

“Hm?” he grunts, startling back to the present.

Babet and Claquesous are both looking at him.

“Your damn phone is going off,” Babet tells him, pointing at where it is buzzing on the couch besides Montparnasse. “What’s up with you today anyway?”

Montparnasse doesn’t answer that. He grabs his phone and walks out of the room instead. He’s painfully aware of how ridiculous he is being, but he doesn’t want to talk about them. Talking about Jehan would make it real. Because this whole situation doesn’t feel real. Perhaps that is the problem here. He’s turning them into some sort of pretty mystery. He knows very little about Jehan after all. They’ve never had an actual proper conversation during their strange little visits to the store, so right now all they are to him are bad clothes, gorgeous eyes, romantic poetry and a few vague details about their life when it doesn’t inexplicably cross paths with his. That is not enough for them to be a full person. Yes, that’s the problem. When he met them he made a nymph out of them and now he’s made them into some beautiful creature of bold poetry and shy blushes. It’s a fantasy. Next time Jehan comes by, Montparnasse decides, he’ll make more of an effort to find out who they are. Break the spell. Dampen the extraordinary with the mundane. Yes, all he has to do is talk to them. Nothing kills mystique like small talk.

♦♦♦

“I’m really not sure this piece exudes the right _feeling_.”

Montparnasse gives the woman a blank stare. She and her husband have been over the entire store, nit-picking over every single detail of every single damn piece of furniture. “Perhaps…” he says, barely managing to keep the contempt out of his voice. “You should take your time to talk it over between the two of you.”

“No,” the husband says authoritatively. “It doesn’t exude the right feeling. We need something that exudes…delicate firmness.”

Montparnasse pretends to nod thoughtfully so he can close his eyes for a moment. If either of them say ‘exude’ again he’ll—

The shop bell tinkles politely and Montparnasse looks round. Red hair in a messy bun, bright red boots and an aquamarine coat. It’s Jehan. When they see the customers they draw back a little, almost as if they want to retreat straight back out of the closing door.

“Welcome,” Montparnasse greets them hastily. “Just a moment, I’ll be right with you.” He’s using his customer voice, but he makes eye contact in a way that makes Jehan smile. Their smile is a _marvellous_ thing.

“We weren’t done yet,” the woman reminds him coldly.

“I’m aware,” Montparnasse replies, a bit too curt. He quickly puts on a smile. “Delicate firmness, was it?”

He leads the customers to the other end of the shop. Not particularly because he has any furniture there that he would call either firm or delicate, but mostly to get them away from Jehan. In passing by them, however, he sees both the man and the woman looking at them and then sharing a decided look of derision. Montparnasse’s jaw tightens. He was going to try to get them to see reason and convince them that there is nothing in this store that they really want. Now he’s changed his mind. He’s going to find something he can sell to these two, he’s going to make them _want_ it, and he’s going to get them to pay a damn arm and a leg for it.

“It’s such a _statement_ ,” the woman says admiringly, standing next to a monstrous china cabinet about twenty minutes later.

“It’s bold,” her husband agrees.

“I must say I _never_ would have thought to combine such a piece with the décor you describe,” Montparnasse simpers. “Your vision is truly inspired.”

There is a soft sound behind a nearby bookcase and Montparnasse has to work hard to keep a straight face.

“We’ll take it,” the couple decides smugly.

“Wonderful,” Montparnasse smiles and for the sake of his own amusement he almost means it. “If you’d follow be back to the counter we can—”

“Now we need at least a side table to match, don’t we dear?”

Montparnasse wants to scream.

The couple stays until after closing time. Halfway through their third exposition on the correct balance between light and dark wood, Montparnasse hears the shop bell tinkle softly and he knows Jehan has left. Now he’s no longer annoyed, he’s furious. By the time his customers have made their decision his face is a mask of frozen compliance. This would have pissed him off on any given day, but right now it is insufferable. When he finally gets them both back to the counter, he sees something that at least temporarily distracts him. One of Jehan’s envelopes placed carefully next to the register. They left a poem behind.

Montparnasse almost smiles. Not quite though, because he still has to deal with these jerks. After getting their details for the delivery of the furniture, he manages to make them pay almost three times what the items are worth. Even that does not give him the satisfaction that it should though. He was going to actually talk to Jehan today. Instead all he has is their apologetic smile from across the store, soft laughter from behind a bookcase and the feeling of their eyes following him through the room. So much for mundanity.

He sits down with an annoyed grunt and pulls the envelope towards him. When he turns it over, he sees writing on the flap. The handwriting must be Jehan’s, but it looks nothing like the loopy letters of the poems. This is rather scribbly and Montparnasse actually has some trouble deciphering some words:

“They better not buy the ebony cabinet, it deserves a better home.”

This time he does smile. Part of him says he shouldn’t and that same part of him says he shouldn’t read the poem now. Self-denial really isn’t Montparnasse’s strong suit though and his resolve has been particularly tried already the past few weeks. He pulls the paper out and turns it over. There are still lines of frustration on his face, but as soon as he begins reading they fade.

_Who's riding so late through th' endless wild?  
The father 't is with his infant child;_

By the time he has finished the first verse, Montparnasse has forgotten his frustration. These words sounds familiar. Old memories stir and start pulling together into sentences and he grins. Oh yes, he knows this. He can use this. With a bit of luck this will put him in control again, before his grip on this situation slips through his fingers completely.

♦♦♦

Montparnasse is the first one to admit that he’s a tad distracted the following Thursday morning, but even if he hadn’t been he would probably still have walked into Violet, seeing as she comes out Babet’s apartment backwards and rather abruptly.

“Mind the shoes,” he tuts, stepping back as she nearly trips over his feet.

“Parnasse!” Violet gulps, spinning round.

Montparnasse slants his head and gives her an appraising look. She looks mussed up and guilty. He represses a sigh. Babet is a moron.

Violet gives him a pleading look. “Don’t— I mean—”

He shakes his head and silently gestures down the stairs. He has no desire to get mixed up in this any more than he already is. Unless Babet asks him directly, he hasn’t seen her.

Violet makes a nondescript sound that might as well be an indication of frustration with herself as an awkward sound of appreciation for his silence and hurries down the stairs. Montparnasse waits until he hears the front door close before going down himself. He scowls at the grey morning sky and walks to the metro with a brisk step. He wonders vaguely whose fault it was this time, Babet or Violet’s. Montparnasse snorts. They haven’t been properly together in years. Not since Violet got knocked up. It’s no secret Babet would jump at the chance to actually get back together with her, but it’s also no secret that he’s not very good at being in a relationship. In fact he’s terrible at it, from what Montparnasse has seen at least. And Babet can sneer all he wants that Montparnasse has no right to judge, Montparnasse disagrees. He has full right to judge. He doesn’t fuck up like Babet does. Because _he_ has the sense not to get into something he knows he doesn’t have the energy or desire to keep up. But he supposes that’s the problem. Babet _wants_ to make the relationship work, he just doesn’t seem to be able to do it. Montparnasse reaches for his cigarettes and then changes his mind with an annoyed huff. He won’t have time to smoke it properly before he reaches the metro. Distractedly he fumbles with his lighter in his jacket pocket. Fucking Violet. She should just leave Babet alone. What does she even want from him.

When he steps into the store Mrs Havisham is standing beside the counter with her coat on. “Ah, there you are,” she says. “Ready to intimidate some of my competitors?”

Montparnasse’s mind is blank for a moment and then he remembers. Fuck. They have an auction today. “Always,” he says smugly, swallowing down his displeasure.

“Shall we head out right away then?” she says, reaching for her handbag.

“At your service,” he simpers mockingly and she scoffs.

Montparnasse follows her back outside to the van. A van that he refuses to drive, because he doesn’t know how to handle anything bigger than a car and if he can’t look good doing something he avoids doing it.

“Any idea when we’ll be back?” he asks nonchalantly, stepping into the passenger’s side.

“No later than three with any luck,” Mrs Havisham says, wrapping her carefully manicured hands around the large steering wheel.

Montparnasse relaxes. That means he’ll be back at the store before Jehan’s class ends. Come to think of it, he doesn’t actually know when Jehan’s pottery class ends, they’ve just never shown up before five. It doesn’t matter anyway, he’ll be back in time.

The auction is fun, they usually are. The flurry of bidding is exciting, but Montparnasse especially enjoys the sort of people that come here. The casual visitors he doesn’t concern himself with, but there are two other groups that he does: the professionals and the addicts. The professionals are Mrs Havisham’s competitors of course (and often her friends but that means nothing in an auction room). They are calculating and they are clever and they know what they want, that makes it a challenge to play them and Montparnasse loves a challenge. The first time he came to an auction it was still easy, because he could pretend to be young and naïve. By now most of them know better than to fall for that, but apart from a few exceptions they still haven’t caught on that Mrs Havisham really doesn’t bring him as an extra pair of hands or eyes, but because he’s capable of lying without even opening his mouth. It’s all about feigning interest in pieces that certainly aren’t worthless, but that aren’t quite worth buying and appearing to be uncertain about pieces that they want to be taking home. It’s a game. A game the addicts are useful pawns in, because they’ll bid on anything they think will be hard to get. Get one of them to go for something and more will follow and eventually even the professionals will cave, that’s how this works. Auctions are adrenaline driven. They’re a mess of bad judgement and beautiful things being stolen out from under other people’s noses. Montparnasse _likes_ auctions.

“Remind me of today next time you fall for something annoyingly expensive,” Mrs Havisham hums as they get back into the van.

“Don’t worry, I will,” Montparnasse says smugly. The display case in his room is one of the things he ‘fell for’, Mrs Havisham let him have it during a lapse of judgement brought on by one of his more dramatic buying victories.

Mrs Havisham is in nearly as good a mood now, as evidenced by the fact that when they have arrived back at the store she says good-naturedly:

“Why don’t you go home, you’ve done a good day’s work.”

Montparnasse takes off his coat. “No need,” he says. “I’ll stay.”

His boss gives him a downright suspicious look and rightfully so. Voluntarily staying at work is not something he does, ever. He may be quite content here, but it’s still work. “Alright then,” she says. “In that case, I’ll be in the back.”

He nods silently. It would suit him better if she left. Maybe she will, after a while. She’s probably going to do some administration and she always gets sick of that pretty quickly.

It’s a quarter past three already but the afternoon still manages to drag on. Montparnasse refuses to check the clock too often, but when he does it’s half past five. And still no Jehan.

“I presume you have a reason for staying,” Mrs Havisham says archly, coming from the backroom with her coat and purse. “So I’ll leave you to lock up.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Montparnasse drawls.

She smirks at him. “You watch your tone,” she admonishes without any real reproach. “And look after my store.”

He gives her a mocking salute and she strides out the door.

When she’s gone, Montparnasse strolls idly through the store. Perhaps Jehan won’t come. Maybe something happened. Or, Montparnasse cuts snidely into his own thoughts, they just decided they have something better to do. Would Jehan be the type to get bored with something all of a sudden? They probably are, artsy passion comes in sudden bursts, doesn’t it.

The shop bell jingles and keeps rattling, as if the door is opening very slowly. Montparnasse steps around a bookcase to see Jehan coming in backwards, pushing the door open with their back. They turn around and Montparnasse sees they are carrying a cardboard box full of pottery.

“Hi!” they say as soon as they see him and their smile is so damn wide Montparnasse feels his own lips move in response.

“Hi,” he says. He nearly adds: “You’re late,” but he just manages to hold that in. The last thing he wants is to make it sound like he’s been waiting for them all day.

“Today was my last class,” Jehan says, as they walk towards him, explaining at once the box of pottery and their tardiness.

Montparnasse nods, trying to ignore the pang in his chest. The way they just said that sounded significant. Like they mean something by it. That they won’t be coming back again for instance.

“So,” Jehan continues, a by now familiar determination sparking in their eyes. “I’ve come properly prepared this time.” They put the box down on the shop counter and pull a fat folder from their bag. “ _Something_ in here, you will love.”

Montparnasse was not expecting that. He raises his eyebrows in incredulity. “How much did you bring?” he asks, almost laughingly.

“Enough,” Jehan says firmly. “And I’m not leaving until we’ve looked at all of them.”

This time Montparnasse does actually laugh.

Jehan looks surprised, but also very pleased and they hug the folder to their chest with a smile that is almost challenging.

“Come on then,” Montparnasse says, shaking his head. He walks to one of the displayed living room sets and sits down on an antique sofa. Jehan happily comes to sit beside him and puts the folder of poems on the coffee table in front of the couch. They’re sitting rather close and without meaning to Montparnasse glances at their lips. For a moment he wonders if he should just kiss them. He _wants_ to kiss them. He wants to kiss them every single time they breeze into his store. And maybe one good kiss would do away with this damn…preoccupation he has for them.

“Everything okay?” Jehan asks quietly. Their expression is as open and gentle as ever.

Damn it. “Did you mean to come this late? It’s almost closing time,” he says, ignoring their question.

“Oh,” Jehan says, colouring a little. “I thought… I thought there might be less chance of other people being there. Is it a problem? I mean, do you need to be somewhere, or-?”

“There’s no problem,” Montparnasse says casually. “If you think it’s a good idea to hang out in a closed store with someone you barely know.”

Jehan gives him a surprised look. “Does that bother you?” they ask. “…I’m sorry.”

Montparnasse really wishes they would stop being so damn considerate and _soft_. “I’m just saying,” he says vaguely.

Jehan smiles, fidgets for a moment and then suddenly they hold out their hand.

It actually takes Montparnasse a second before he understands that they want him to shake it. With as expressionless a face as he can command he complies. Their hand is small and soft.

“I’m Jehan Prouvaire,” they say brightly. “I study history and I work at a museum because I’m a cliché. But you already knew that I guess. I dance and I write and I collect things. Plants, things, friends. I love my friends. Um, I have a cat at home but I wish I had one here, which is not going to happen because I still live in student housing. I like making things and watching things and…”

Montparnasse listens with his eyes fixed on them rather intently and he can hear them losing speed. Their confidence comes in bursts, he has learned by now. The burst is nearly over.

“…and…and I am here in the defence of poetry,” Jehan finishes, seemingly shoving their uncertainty down before it can get a hold of them. They grab the folder off the table and open it with a flourish. “Here,” they say and they hold a sheet of paper out to Montparnasse almost like it’s a weapon. “Read something of Oscar’s.”

Montparnasse takes the poem, but doesn’t start reading. He’s still looking at Jehan. They aren’t asking for him to introduce himself back. Did they really think _he_ was uncomfortable to be alone in an empty store after dark with _them_? With them looking about as threatening as a songbird. Slowly, he turns his eyes to the words on the page. Knowing that Jehan wants a cat and that they collect plants does not make them more mundane. It doesn’t make them anything less than they are. Whatever it is that they are. Except someone he’s sitting next to while reading poetry, who he doesn’t want to leave, but who he’s _not_ going to kiss. Dammit.

“You’re not reading,” Jehan says accusingly.

“Sorry,” Montparnasse mutters unthinkingly and he reads. While he reads he’s painfully aware of Jehan’s eyes on him. Sometimes they look away, sorting through the poems to find the next one to attack him with, but most of the time they’re looking intently at him. Montparnasse is so used to being looked at. Either in suspicion or admiration, but Jehan is different. That’s trouble right there. They’re different. He doesn’t know what to do with that. Except…he still has the last poem they gave him hidden in the back room… No, he shouldn’t. It was a stupid idea to begin with.

Montparnasse finishes the poem, having absorbed none of it. He hands it back to Jehan with a blank face.

“Nothing?” they say incredulously. Their eyes spark. “Fine. This one then.” They hand him another.

Their frustration almost makes Montparnasse smile, because when he’s not thinking about it, this is fun. Actually fun. And why the fuck isn’t he allowed to enjoy it? He’s sitting in a chandelier-lit antique store, on stupidly expensive furniture, with a person that is too pretty to leave alone and too innocent to kiss. Damn it all. Montparnasse reads and he begins to make noises as he does so. All of them are vague, none of them give any indication of appreciation or dislike, but they make Jehan excited. His face he keeps painfully neutral. Sometimes he feels Jehan’s eyes on him and whenever he does, he glances up at them, making them quickly avert their eyes. With every poem their expression grows a little more heated. Montparnasse reads faster and faster. All that poetry and all those looks and blushes are going to his head.

But this might be Jehan’s last stand. They really might not come back after this. Well, he’s never asked them to come back. He’s never actively given them a reason to come back. And he shouldn’t. Because— Fuck it.

Montparnasse puts the page he’d been reading down.

Jehan gives him a dismayed look, taken aback by his lack of reaction. With a sigh they fall back on the sofa in a slump. “Are you doing this on purpose?” they mutter.

The corner of Montparnasse’s mouth twitches. There is still no suspicion on their face, they’re not resentful, they are _sulking_. Without a word he gets to his feet and walks to the back room. On his way back he takes the poem out of the envelope and carefully places it in the open folder, returning it to its fellows.

“About this one…” he begins.

Jehan sits up, eyes brightening. “Did you like that one?” they ask. The eagerness in their voice is too much, if Montparnasse hadn’t made up his mind just now, he does now.

He grins, folding his hands behind his back. “I like it better in its original German,” he says.

A slight frown passes across Jehan’s face, before their eyes widen in comprehension. He hasn’t sat down, so they have to look up to meet his eyes and they do, nearly gaping.

Montparnasse smiles at them and starts to recite slowly, drawing out every foreign sound and syllable:

 _“Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?_  
_Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind;_  
_Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,_  
_Er faßt ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm.”_

Jehan stares at him, spellbound and Montparnasse is now thankful the poem is so long. He felt very differently when memorizing it. He had known and loved this poem once, but it had been too long ago. Still, it was all worth it, because Jehan is looking at him with such baffled admiration that Montparnasse hardly knows whether to look at their widened eyes or their slightly parted lips. The poem ends too soon, but he makes every dark, mournful word count:

 _“Dem Vater grauset's, er reitet geschwind,_  
_Er hält in Armen das ächzende Kind,_  
_Erreicht den Hof mit Mühe und Not;_  
_In seinen Armen das Kind war tot.”_

A silence follows, filled with gradually fading words. And then Jehan says, slowly:

“You speak German?”

“Shameful hidden heritage,” Montparnasse smirks.

Another stunned silence.

“You said you don’t like poetry,” Jehan says, something like accusation dawning in their baffled tone.

“You _presumed_ I don’t like poetry,” Montparnasse corrects.

Jehan gapes at him and then they start to smile. Their smile is like the goddamn sun. “I _knew_ it,” they cry. “You _were_ doing it on purpose!” They bounce up in their seat and nearly clap their hands with glee.

Montparnasse snorts laughingly and sits down, hiding how pleased he is with their excitement.

“Which ones did you like?” they demand to know. “ _Tell me_. And don’t lie this time.”

“I never lied,” Montparnasse corrects again.

“Yes, you did,” they contradict warmly. “Now tell me!”

Montparnasse sorts through the poems, trying to give at least somewhat of an honest opinion on most of them. Jehan does not seem to require great eloquence on his part, any description of any sort of feeling evoked by the words makes them beam. And they are triumphant in their delight when he picks out a Baudelaire and one by Poe as old favourites.

“And this one?” they ask eagerly, pushing a page towards him.

He looks at it. “I don’t think I’ve read this one,” he says. He feels a little buzzed. Jehan looks the same, but he suspects they are experiencing the same effect from rather different sources.

“Oh please read it!” Jehan begs. “It’s a really good one! This can be the last one you read, I promise.”

Montparnasse smirks. He’s tired of reading, but he’s not tired of Jehan. “No,” he says and he holds it out for them to take it back. “I recited for you, now recite for me.”

Jehan’s eyes spark at him for a moment and then they take the paper. “Alright,” they say boldly.

Montparnasse grins. It’s only fair he should hear them read something, after they all but forced him to read half a library _and_ learn a poem by heart he hadn’t read since school. But then they begin to read and the moment the first words tumble from their lips Montparnasse knows he’s made a mistake.

Because he’s been real good, keeping his hands to himself and his thoughts mostly in check, but now…

 _“Tis evening. At the western shore_  
_Sinks, shining bright, like golden ore,_  
_The sun, as if a bow to take._  
_In the waters of the gentle lake,_  
_Which colours all shades scarlet red,_  
_And like a blushing newlywed,_  
_Welcomes the sun into its bed.”_

The words trickle gently, like paint spilling off a canvas. When Jehan speaks of a youth surrounded by the colours of sunset, Montparnasse sees only them. The words call up images as vivid as real life, but they cannot replace Jehan. Slowly, Jehan looks up from the page, into Montparnasse’s staring eyes. They must know this part by heart, because they do not stumble once.

 _“Tis night. Already drowned in dark_  
_Is the sun’s last fiery spark._  
_Darkness now deep as the grave_  
_Spreads itself across field and wave._  
_Only rustling leaves now fill the air_  
_And the murmur of the waters there –_  
_Yet straight ahead the youth does stare.”_

When Jehan casts down their eyes again Montparnasse feels his heart twist within him.

 _“Tis morning. By the quiet lake,_  
_Still on the spot the youth did take,_  
_Pale features gaze, turned to the west,_  
_But blind now to the light so blessed._  
_To the flowers, in their bloom employed._  
_Once flowing hot, now cold and void_  
_Is the youth’s red blood. – His heart destroyed.”_

A silence follows that Montparnasse does not have the power to break. He can’t think straight yet. He knows he’s staring and he wants to look away, but he hasn’t got the power to do that either.

Jehan looks up, the glow of poetry dissipating and making way for a slight uncertainty. “It…it’s better in the original language,” they mutter. “It’s by a Dutch poet. My friend Feuilly translated it for me.”

“It’s…I like it,” Montparnasse says, staring at the curved words on the page that Jehan is still holding. It’s not quite looking away, but at least his eyes have left theirs.

“You do?” Jehan says and their voice is full of delight.

“I do,” Montparnasse says honestly. He does not know if he would have liked it as much if he had read it himself, but that is of no consequence now. That poem will be forever in Jehan’s voice for him. Nothing can change that. Something stirs vaguely at the back of his brain and he looks up with a slight frown. “Did you say Feuilly?”

“Yeah?” Jehan says.

Montparnasse does not quite manage to keep his face neutral.

“You know Feuilly?” Jehan cheers. “Auburn hair, good with languages, even better at making things?”

Their voice is so loving and proud that Montparnasse forgets to scoff and just nods, that’s Feuilly alright.

“How do you know him?” they ask delightedly. “I can’t believe you know him!”

Montparnasse mages a vague noise. “He restores stuff for the store sometimes,” he shrugs.

“Really?” Jehan beams. “What a lovely coincidence! Do you like him?” They laugh, as if it’s a silly question.

Montparnasse makes use of that by laughing along slightly and avoiding to answer. If Jehan is friends with Feuilly, he should _not_ let on how well they know each other. That’s— No, he can’t have that.

One of the antique clocks in the store chimes. Montparnasse glances up. Seven o’clock. That old thing runs early, but still.

Jehan makes a surprised noise and laughs awkwardly. “No wonder I’m hungry,” they laugh. “Sorry for keeping you so long.”

Montparnasse shakes his head vaguely. He could ask them out to dinner… He _wants_ to. But then what? He’d—

“I was wondering,” Jehan says suddenly, hands hovering over the many pages scattered across the antique coffee table. They fall silent again instantly and look at him.

Montparnasse looks back, deeply conflicted.

Jehan’s face is red gain. “My pottery class being over and all…” they begin again, hesitating another second before saying with sudden firmness: “Shall we exchange numbers?”

Montparnasse stares at them. Oh for fuck's sake. “Why,” he managed to ask flatly.

Their face flushes deeper. “...so we can be friends?”

Friends. Montparnasse resists the urge to grimace. No. His answer should be no. No, what the hell are you thinking. No, go home. No, leave me alone. No, I don’t want to be friends with you. No I _can’t_ be friends with you. But the alternative… The alternative is never seeing them again, isn’t it.

“Sure,” he says and before he knows it, Jehan has put their number in his phone and added him on Snapchat.

“Thanatos!” Jehan laughs, looking at his screen name.

“Is that funny?” he demands.

“Yeah,” Jehan says. “And it’s a really good name!”

Montparnasse doesn’t answer. _Their_ name is ‘Jehanemone’, which is disgustingly cute and this whole thing is weirding him out.

Jehan starts putting the poems back in the folder, but suddenly they take the one they recited and hold it out to Montparnasse. “Here,” they say.

“I don’t—” he begins.

“You keep it,” Jehan says happily. “I want you to have it.”

Neither their expression nor their tone of voice leave any room for resistance. At least not resistance Montparnasse knows how to give without seeming like a massive jerk. He takes the poem.

Jehan hums happily at him and puts the folder back in their bag.

This is the second gift Jehan has given him and Montparnasse feels strangely in debt. He doesn’t like it. He likes it still less that Jehan is gathering their things and getting ready to leave. They button their coat and grab the box of pottery from the counter. There are some really weird looking pots in there.

“You won’t get in trouble with your boss, will you?” Jehan asks. “For staying this late?”

“Havisham is hardly going to scold me for _staying_ late,” he shrugs.

“Havisham?” Jehan says, swallowing a laugh. “That’s a little mean.”

“How so?” Montparnasse frowns.

Jehan blinks. “You mean that’s actually her name?” they ask, amazed.

“Yeah?” he says. What are they on about?

“I thought— Dickens. Oh, never mind,” they smile. They give him a look that to Montparnasse seems to be apologetic for no reason and hurry to the door. They can barely open it with the box in their hands so Montparnasse walks over and opens it for them.

“Thank you,” they flush, shuffling across the threshold. “Um, bye! I’ll text you?”

Without waiting for an answer they hurry off, the sound of clattering pottery trailing behind them.

Montparnasse closes the door, but watches them go through the glass. His feelings are a fucking mess. He feels _good_ and he’s not used to feeling good when he doesn’t feel in control of a situation. And he’s definitely not in control. But he also feels guilty. Jehan wants to be his friend. What the hell does he even want? Apart from things he’s not going to do.

He glances down at the beautifully written poem in his hand. Every single word written there he can hear spoken in Jehan’s voice. He can see their lips forming the sounds. He can still feel the shivers on his skin.

This was a mistake. A really big mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jehan calling poets by their first name is something I picked up from Azura/Blazeofmemory. I thought it was just too adorable an idea not to adopt.
> 
> I had a whole list of poems to include in this, but they were slowing the story down. The poems I actually quoted were The Erl-King/Der Erlkönig by Goethe and De Bleeke Jongeling/The Pallid Youth by Piet Paaltjes ( [ which I translated myself because I am ridiculous ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14034171) ).  
> Considering the timeline of this story Louison cannot have been subjected to the Amis’ shenanigans for very long, but certainly long enough to give her a disgust for puns. ;)


	5. Montparnasse doesn’t miss the music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** Contains descriptions of “the club scene” written by someone who has nothing but second-hand information (with thanks to the friends and family members that helped inspire this, whether they are aware of it or not).
> 
> Please also consider that your content warning for alcohol and recreational drug use.
> 
> [There are music suggestions at the end of the chapter if you're into that sort of thing~]

 

“I’ll text you,” Jehan had said. They hadn’t been kidding. Montparnasse doesn’t know how to deal with this level of spontaneous communication. Before he even got home from the store that evening they sent him a picture of the mirror, hanging in their room. Their room, as far as Montparnasse can see, is small and absolutely crammed full of stuff. The mirror looks beautiful hanging in the midst of it though, almost like something is about to burst through it from the other side. It looked like a damn work of art, so Montparnasse told them that and that somehow led to a conversation on beauty. A rather one-sided conversation, but still.

Their second conversation had been even more disconcerting. Because it had started with Jehan texting him: “I didn’t know you were Feuilly’s _brother_???! :D”

That had been extremely uncomfortable. Luckily it seemed that Feuilly had told Jehan next to nothing after that particular bit of information and Jehan, though very excited, wasn’t pushy. They seemed happy to gush about Feuilly being an awesome person and Montparnasse had gotten away with vague statements of agreement. Vague because he really didn’t want to volunteer any information and agreement because, well, he did agree.

After that Jehan just sort of…kept messaging him. Not continually, but at least every three days or so. Every other day if Snapchat counts and Montparnasse really can’t be sure if their snaps are meant for just him or all their friends. He actually has a similar problem with the texts. Because they’re not the sort of texts you send someone when you’re trying to drop a hint. When Jehan’s name lights up his screen it’s never a ‘what are you up to?’ or a ‘I’m bored ;)’. It’s always something, well, unusual.

More often than not it’s a picture without any sort of message or context attached. A close-up of a cloud, or the cover of an old book, or a freshly pressed flower. Those were all things that Montparnasse had halfway expected. He had not expected the bookcase with the skull on one of the shelves or the illustration of what seemed to be three blood drops in the snow. He had actually demanded an explanation for that last one and that had resulted in Jehan absolutely spamming him with messages about some old story about a Parsifal and someone called Gawain. After that the messages had become even more frequent and because a guy can only receive a certain amount of haiku’s and random reflections on the world before being forced into some sort of reply Montparnasse had begun to send stuff back, even if he could never think of a proper answer. 

But no matter how vague or useless his information, Jehan was interested in it. And they are easy to talk to. So _dangerously_ easy to talk to. Their questions often aren’t phrased like questions and Montparnasse finds himself answering them without even realising it. He lets several things slip he didn’t mean to. Little things, sure, but still the sort of stuff that makes people frown. Except Jehan doesn’t react like Montparnasse thought they would. Not with nervous questions or sudden drawing back. He can’t say they don’t care, because he is beginning to suspect Jehan cares about literally everything, but they don’t seem to _mind_ at all. And they don’t press for more either. Well, except for one thing. After a joke about prized possessions getting confiscated they ask to see his collection. Montparnasse sends them a picture and finds out that, astonishingly, Jehan is capable of gushing about weaponry the same they do about plants or poetry.

That was when the selfies began...

When Montparnasse takes selfies they are carefully angled and invariably have their saturation dialled down. He makes them for himself mostly, except when he’s sending stuff back and forth with Éponine or when he’s rubbing a particularly good outfit in Claquesous’ face. Jehan’s selfies are very different. They are either perfectly framed, with them staring starry-eyed into the camera or they are slightly blurry and taken solely to show that they are next to a plant or a pigeon or something else they are irrationally happy to be close to.

It’s exactly the sort of useless stuff that annoys Montparnasse. Except it doesn’t. It doesn’t and he knows exactly why and it’s driving him insane. He likes Jehan. Genuinely likes them. In theory he can deal with that. It doesn’t happen too often, but every now and again he runs into someone he can appreciate on a personal level. What he’s not comfortable with is that when it comes to Jehan his categories of people are getting all messed up. There are people he can stand, there are people he likes and there are people he considers his friends (he can count the latter categories on two and one hand respectively). Jehan is currently hovering somewhere in between those latter two categories. That would be fine. Except there’s also people he imagines pinning against a wall and kissing breathless while he works their clothes off. Jehan _definitely_ falls into that category. And they can’t. Because that group of people and the ones he considers his friends _never_ overlap. Threatening to kiss Claquesous when he was being dramatic and one drunken make-out session with Éponine before they both got to their senses is as close as he ever got to blurring those lines and he doesn’t _want_ them blurred. But the more he gets to know Jehan, the blurrier everything gets. Montparnasse can’t have that. He’ll have to put Jehan in a category of their own. Something separate from normal reason. Separate from the normal order of the day. Separate from _everything_.

♦

“So, you and Jehan, hm?”

Montparnasse wants to kick something. He is standing in Feuilly’s workshop, waiting for him to give an estimation on how much it’s going to cost to save a particularly battered but very beautiful old fauteuil. “What about them?” he says, sounding suitably indifferent.

Feuilly is looking intently at him and since avoiding him isn’t really an option, Montparnasse looks back with as neutral an expression as possible.

“You met up with them a couple of times, right?” Feuilly asks cautiously.

Montparnasse can’t be sure how much Jehan told him and he sure as hell isn’t going to go into detail himself. So he shrugs, nothing else.

“They told me they came to your store,” Feuilly tries again.

“Hm,” Montparnasse hums.

Feuilly looks away, turning his attention back to the chair. “I just wanted to check if they weren’t bothering you. While you’re working I mean.”

“Of course not,” Montparnasse blurts out. Did Jehan think he thought they were bothering him? Did they ask Feuilly to check?

“So you like them then?” Feuilly asks, glancing up again a little too fast.

Montparnasse’s confusion fades. Bloody Feuilly. “I like them fine,” he grunts.

Feuilly nods, but he keeps looking at him with an expression Montparnasse hasn’t seen on his face in a long time. Not for a couple of years.

“What,” he says blankly.

“I’m—” Feuilly gives half a shake of his head. He looks Montparnasse in the eye and Montparnasse wonders, not for the first time, how Feuilly can manage to make him forget he’s almost a head taller. “Jehan,” Feuilly says finally. “Is one of the softest, gentlest people I—”

Montparnasse stares at him. He knows they are soft. He can _tell_ that they’re gentle. What the hell does Feuilly mean by telling him like this. “We’re _texting_ Feuilly,” he interrupts snidely. “That’s it.”

Feuilly shuts his mouth, gives him an odd look and then turns away. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s none of my business.”

Montparnasse regards him suspiciously for a moment, but Feuilly keeps quiet. When he speaks again, it’s about the fauteuil and Montparnasse answers him like nothing happened. Because he knows what just happened and he’s not going to acknowledge it. Feuilly was trying to find out what his intentions with Jehan were. To tell him, probably in that roundabout _friendly_ way that Feuilly has elevated to an art form, to back off. Part of Montparnasse wishes Feuilly had actually told him off, given him a direct order to keep his hands off Jehan. Because that would have given him a reason to go back on his unspoken promise to himself. Not that he will. He won’t. Because Feuilly is right. Jehan is soft. Far too soft to mess around with. Montparnasse has known that from the first time he met them.

♦

For as long as he can remember Montparnasse has slept lightly and dreamt rarely. He’s always been thankful for that, the absence of dreams. Or at least he never remembers them.

He remembers them now.

With a resentment directed towards the entire goddamn world Montparnasse sits up in bed and tries to rub Jehan’s image from his mind.

It’s fucking Sunday morning and he is awake, again. This is ridiculous. But how can he sleep if he can’t trust his own damn mind. With a groan he claws his hands through his hair to dispel the phantom feeling of Jehan’s fingers touching it. He feels like he has iron nails driven into his shoulders. He can’t deal with this much longer. He needs something to get Jehan out of his head. If he can’t do it permanently, temporary will do.

He drags himself out of bed and doesn’t even _look_ at what clothes he puts on. Just before walking barefoot out of the door he does pull a brush through his hair, because there are limits to what he can allow himself to do. Throwing his head from side to side to stretch his neck, he trots down the stairs and lets himself into the first-floor apartment with a key he’s technically not supposed to have. He hears soft classical music coming from Claquesous’ room and knocks. The music switches off. The door opens and Montparnasse looks into Claquesous’ morning face: no make-up, olive skin freshly washed, unbrushed hair not perfectly draped across his face for once.

“Morning,” Montparnasse says.

Claquesous nods.

“Got a show tonight?” he asks. Claquesous prefers to call them shows instead of raves or parties and since Montparnasse is angling for a favour he’s not going to provoke him like he’s usually fond of doing.

Another silent nod.

“Can I come?” Montparnasse asks.

Claquesous smiles, slowly, and way too smug to Montparnasse’s liking. “Sure thing,” he drawls, and then, already turning away: “Leaving at seven.”

Montparnasse nods in agreement and steps away and Claquesous closes the door again. Montparnasse bites his lip. He just needs a night off. He really does.

♦

That evening when Montparnasse gets ready he’s surprised how familiar the thrill of anticipation still feels. He hasn’t been in almost a year. It’s oddly nostalgic. He hasn’t worn his cravat since the last time. His nails are painted silver for the occasion, a great excess these days, so his Victorian inspired jacket is all black. Black and shimmering.

Claquesous is waiting for him when he comes downstairs. He’s wearing only minimal make-up and has that backpack with him that Montparnasse both despises and fears. It’s old and tattered and it always crinkles the fabric of Claquesous’ shirts, but it’s full of unknown and possibly dangerous things and _no one_ touches it.

“Where’s your hat?” Claquesous asks.

“Didn’t feel like it,” Montparnasse replies.

His friend shrugs and they leave for the club. As usual Babet is already there. Claquesous makes a big deal about how he suffers for his art, but he sure as hell doesn’t pull fifteen-hour shifts like Babet.

Neither of them talk on the way there. Claquesous is wrapped in that quiet intensity that always seems to build up in him before a show. They go in through the backdoor of the club, passing by the front. Next to the door, on one of those stupid bulletin boards covered with plastic, it’s clearly announced:

TONIGHT: Bal Masqué.

Further explanation is unnecessary. Everybody here knows what that means.

Montparnasse feels slightly uncomfortable. A club before hours is like a school after hours, it’s odd, and he’s not used to it anymore. Claquesous is greeted by everyone there and some people greet Montparnasse as well, but he merely nods. As they walk away from the daylight and into the bowels of the building Montparnasse starts to feel better. He still knows all the lefts and rights. The sounds and smells are reassuringly familiar.

When they arrive at Claquesous’ dressing room Montparnasse slants his head at him with a grin. “Break a leg, Sous.”

Claquesous tips his head back. “Lose your mind, Parnasse,” he drawls and he locks the door behind him.

Montparnasse raps his nails against the door once and leaves, sauntering towards the stage entrance. Suddenly he hears running feet approaching and something a head shorter than him pounces on him from behind.

“You really came!”

Montparnasse converts his fight reflex in a freezing one just in time and lets Brujon hug him for just a moment before shaking him off.

“Get off me,” he grunts. He looks the grinning boy up and down. “Are you high?”

“Nah,” Brujon grins. “I’m dealing tonight.”

Montparnasse glances him up and down. He’s wearing a nice dark grey button-up. It doesn’t quite match his jeans, but still.

“You like it?” Brujon grins wider. “I got it on sale.”

“You never say that,” Montparnasse corrects. Then he allows himself an approving look. “And yeah, I like it.”

Brujon bounces off, high on nothing but praise and being eighteen years old, and Montparnasse goes to find Babet. He’s sitting behind his lighting panel with his eyes closed. Montparnasse doesn’t say anything, but as soon as he walks up to the table Babet mutters:

“That you, Parnasse?”

Claquesous must have told him Montparnasse was coming with.

“The one and only.”

Babet yawns and opens his eyes. He looks beat. Montparnasse is pretty sure he stage handed a full theatre show last night. He’s also pretty sure that Babet’s going to have to choose soon if he wants to keep doing theatre. But shows like these…they pay well, in more ways than one.

“I hope you have something special planned tonight,” he says with a smirk.

Babet grins. “Hell yeah I do,” he says. His grin widens a little, partially driving away the fatigue. “Now that you’re back we’re gonna _keep_ you coming back.”

“Is Brujon here every show now?” Montparnasse asks. He doesn’t see that kid as often as he’d like. Well, no, like is a strong word. He doesn’t see him as often as he used to. Better.

“Mostly, yeah,” Babet nods. “Faunt too.” He grins. “If we could get Gueul in here we’d have the whole gang together.”

They both snicker. There’s no way in hell that is happening, ever.

After a while Babet’s leaves the lights to check the sound riggings on the stage. Montparnasse offers to give him a hand.

“You’ll wrinkle your suit, pretty boy,” Babet winks, tossing him a cable.

Montparnasse catches it elegantly. “Suits don’t wrinkle as easily when they’re well pressed,” he sneers.

They bicker some more while putting the finishing touches on Claquesous’ special stage setup and Montparnasse has to admit that he’s missed this.

At nine Brujon shows up with food and drink. At ten Babet does the last sound and light checks with two of his minions, that Montparnasse doesn’t know. The doors will open at eleven and Montparnasse goes to sit at the bar to see the crowd come in.

The doors open.

The crowd flows in.

There’s no music playing, just noise. Strange, unsettling noise that confuses the ears and makes it impossible to hear the many shuffling feet. It’s almost too dark to see. Only the bar is lit up with blue and as the crowd gets thicker, here and there a blue neon bracelet starts glowing in the dark. Montparnasse knows one of them is Brujon’s. Get caught dealing without one of those and you lose your teeth as well as your stash. Montparnasse bites his lip. It suddenly doesn’t seem too long ago that he wore one of those bracelets for the first time himself. He always hated them. They looked tacky on any outfit and they changed colour every night so they were impossible to match.

Slowly Montparnasse slides off his barstool and joins the crowd. He hears a raised voice above the buzz of noise and turns around. Since he’s taller than most of the people here, he spots the altercation easily. It’s Brujon and a kid that’s probably got a couple of years on him and therefore thinks he knows better. Montparnasse pushes through the crowd until he reaches them.

“You’re bringing down the mood,” he observes, putting a hand on the guy’s shoulder.

He looks up into Montparnasse’s face and wisely shuts his mouth.

“Hey!” Brujon pipes up. “Parnasse. This guy won’t take my very _nicely_ offered water. Dickhead.”

“I don’t need—” the guy starts, but Montparnasse turns him around and leans forward until his face is almost level with his.

“You collapse and you’re a problem for all of us,” he says darkly, staring into the startled eyes. “So drink the fuck up.”

The guy blinks and Montparnasse smiles at him. He hasn’t used this smile in a while. It really is a night for nostalgia.

“O-okay…”

“Wise choice,” Montparnasse hums and he lets go and straightens up.

Brujon laughs when the guy walks off, glancing back uncertainly, _with_ the bottle of water. “See, that’s why I miss you,” he says. He grins. “Want some yourself?”

Montparnasse hesitates. He’s tempted, but he shakes his head. Old habits die hard. He’s not convinced he’ll be able to kill them a second time.

Brujon shrugs and turns around to face a new customer. Montparnasse steps away and makes his way closer to the stage. Not too close, but close enough. Because really, with Claquesous on sound and Babet on lights…you don’t need drugs.

**_“Good evening treasured guests…”_ **

As soon as the voice rings out, all the lights shut off. Montparnasse can feel the collective thrill of the entire room. The electronic noises have changed into something that is almost music, but not quite. The hairs on the back of Montparnasse’s neck stand on end.

The stage lights go on slowly. They’re bright and dazzling and everyone stares. Montparnasse included.

A figure only vaguely resembling Claquesous is surveying the crowd. His hair is blue, bright blue and Montparnasse knows it must be a wig, but right now it isn’t, because that isn’t Claquesous. The silver mask glints in the light and the lips visible below it are painted black and smirking.

**_“I see some uninitiated among you who have brought their own masks…”_ **

The regulars grin and giggle and another thrill rages through the crowd.

**_“Take. Them. Off.”_ **

That last word echoes commandingly from every direction and the few people that had come adorned with lace or cardboard masks nervously take them off.

**_“I am the only one who needs to shroud his face tonight…the only mask you’ll be wearing is the veil of euphoria…”_ **

His voice is thick like honey. Every syllable clear and melodic. Not a word swallowed or slurred. The music – it’s really music now – is swelling, pulsing, and people are starting to move. Every eye is still turned towards the stage though.

**_“Tonight we let the world fall away…”_ **

The mask glints and the lips smile. The voice echoes.

**_“You may call me Mascarade… Welcome to my Bal Masqué.”_ **

The lights blink out and sound explodes. People scream. Not out of fear, just because they _must_ scream.

Around him the world starts moving, but Montparnasse stands still and watches Claquesous – Mascarade – dance around the stage. It’s been too long since he saw his friend perform. His hands fly over the keys of unseen instruments and his feet change direction with the rhythm of the beat. Montparnasse knows how it works. He knows about the pedals, the mix tracks, the layers of sound, the delay on the microphone. That doesn’t make it any less impressive.

The light, Babet’s artistry, is dazzling and overwhelming. Montparnasse can no longer trust his eyes. His body vibrates with the bass and the high notes are scratching down his spine. His brain begins to forget the difference between sound and light. He begins to move. Everyone and everything is moving. Montparnasse forgets his feet even touch the ground.

Light of different colours falls on the many different faces, turning their eyes into gleaming, blinking orbs. A girl bumps into Montparnasse and before she can turn around he grabs her hand and spins her. She twirls and dances with him. Her face is painted with silver glitter and for just a moment she is the most beautiful creature alive.

And then, when the notes of the music vibrate as if they are about to shatter, Mascarade sings. A collective sigh drifts through the music. Montparnasse lets go of the glittering girl and she disappears. Everything disappears. Mascarade always sings. But no one knows when.

His voice glides from dark and deep into breathtakingly high and for a moment Montparnasse manages to remember, through the daze, how Sous taught himself to sing again after starting HRT. Singing for evenings on end every time his voice changed. Then the echoes start and electronics replace Mascarade’s voice again. Montparnasse lets go of the memory. He lets go of all of his thoughts. Mascarade’s laugh rings out from every direction and flecks of light start spreading from the stage like escaped stars. They fill the entire room. Montparnasse tips back his head and breathes in the light and the sound and the high of the crowd.

He dances.

Near the stage there is a cry of joy and he looks up in time to see Mascarade pull a boy and then a girl onto the stage. They are clad in matching glittery blue and they dance in unison. Their faces are twin pictures of elation. Mascarade turns his back to them and dances around the mixing table. The sound of strings fills the air and the blue girl spins around on her partner’s hand until she’s a blur. The cheers are deafening, but they do not drown out the music. Nothing drowns out this music.

Feet stomp and drinks are passed around and Montparnasse _dances_. When the strings fade he grabs a slight thing clad in white and lifts them up above the crowd, making them stretch out their arms and sing for joy. He _dances_. When the guitars kick in, he kisses a boy with beautiful eyes that were fixed on him a second too long. He _dances_.

And as long as he dances everything in the world that is beautiful belongs to him.

♦

Montparnasse stays through to the end. A Bal Masqué doesn’t end until the sun rises, but he stays until after that. He always has and he thinks he needs to. He needs to see the normal lights come back on. Has to make sure that it’s Claquesous who emerges from the dressing room. Claquesous who slurs his words together and combs his hair down in front of his eyes. And he needs to see the hands that made light explode from the darkness rub tiredly in Babet’s eyes. Montparnasse isn’t sure he could deal with coming down from the high without all that.

They go out for breakfast, because they’re all starved and they take Brujon with them because of reasons. Then they go home, neither of them saying a word. Except at the door of Maison Minette Montparnasse says: “Good show guys.”

“Fuck yeah,” Babet grunts sleepily.

Claquesous only nods. His face looks oddly empty with all the stage make-up washed off. He also looks a lot shorter than he did on stage, something that has nothing to do with him changing his boots.

“Blue is a good colour on you,” Montparnasse admits, carefully avoiding to meet Claquesous’ gaze.

He still sees the lopsided grin from the corner of his eyes.

Back in his own apartment Montparnasse carefully lays aside his suit and then falls into bed. As soon as his head touches the pillow he sleeps. And he doesn’t dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do not do drugs. Listen to these instead and imagine you could turn the feeling of these into one sound:  
> [Darma – Fire Source (Chabunk Remix)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7mCRjsc4F-I&ab_channel=SolartechRecords)  
> [Love Never Dies — Beauty Underneath](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cEUOSx9h3TE&ab_channel=TwistedStarlight)
> 
> Thanks for reading! I've literally never written anything like this before so I'd love to hear what you think <3


	6. Montparnasse doesn’t value friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: description of a painting that depicts a violent death.

With the memory of strange lips against his own it’s easier to see Jehan’s selfies. Montparnasse even starts teasing them again. Just a little, just because he can and because the strings of emojis Jehan sends back when he flusters them make him smile. That’s all jokes though. Jokes are fair game. Jokes suit him. Just like stolen kisses in a crowded club suit him. And that is a scene as far removed from Jehan as he can possibly imagine.

Somehow their messages become more comfortable now. Jehan complains when they’re stuck in a boring class, Montparnasse ridicules his customers for their amusement (and his release of frustration). Jehan sends him fragments of poetry that he pretends not to see the appeal of and he sends them aggressive curses and sometimes pictures of whatever offended him, that Jehan pretends to disagree with. It’s pretty good. Feels normal. Until it doesn’t.

 **Jehan** : Hey!

 **Jehan** : There’s an exhibition on the depiction of death in paintings. Wanna come?

 **Jehan** : This Sunday?

Montparnasse stares at the message. His first instinct is to say no. Not because he has something against museums, he can take them or leave them really, but because it’s weird. Why would Jehan want to go with _him_? Come to think of it he’s never been to any sort of museum with anyone else outside of stupid school trips.

His phone beeps again.

 **Jehan** : I think you’d like it!

The next message is a link to the website. He doesn’t bother looking. It’s not like the content of the exhibition is going to sway him. Montparnasse hesitates.

He hasn’t seen Jehan since the last time they met at his store. Well, he’s seen their face almost every day. But he hasn’t _actually_ seen them. And he kind of wants to. He’d like to see Jehan again. It would be good to see them again as he is now. Calmer, more composed. Well, why not? He goes to the movies with Éponine, to plays with Babet, concerts with Claquesous. Why should this be different?

 **Parnasse** : Sure

 **Jehan** : Yay!

 **Jehan** : I’ll come pick you up.

 **Parnasse** : Wouldn’t meeting at the museum be faster?

 **Jehan** : Nah, I‘ll come pick you up ^_^

 **Jehan** : Travelling together is more fun!

Alright then… Montparnasse puts his phone aside. This is good. Jehan wants to be friends, so why the hell not. Besides, going to a museum with them might actually be fun. They’re probably going to run from painting to painting with enough drama to startle and possibly offend the other visitors, he could get into that.

♦♦♦

The next time Éponine asks to be picked up after class she better have a bloody good reason. Half the town seems to be blocked off because of some strike or protest or whatever and Montparnasse is about ready to start throwing things. When he finally pulls up in front of Éponine’s school he is in such a bad mood that he swears out loud when he sees she isn’t alone. Marius is with her. He is _not_ dealing with Marius right now.

They are sitting on one of the concrete blocks randomly lining what would be called a playground if this had been an elementary school. There is someone else with them as well, though. A girl. And considering she is sitting in between Marius and Éponine that probably makes her Cosette.

Montparnasse has never actually seen Wonder Gal in the flesh and he looks at her with some interest. Cosette, it turns out, is all pastel colours and plumpness and – in Montparnasse’s not so humble opinion – sitting in between them she looks a lot better next to Éponine than next to Marius. Éponine still hasn’t seen him. She’s too busy talking. He rolls down the window, puts two fingers in his mouth and lets out a sharp whistle.

Éponine’s head snaps up. The other two look in his direction too and Montparnasse immediately sees the sullen disapproval on Marius’ face. Montparnasse stares him down. Of all the things he’s willing to do for Éponine, getting along with Pontmercy isn’t one of them. His offences are too great. He dresses badly, he’s good-looking while he shouldn’t be _and_ he tried to speak German to Montparnasse the first time he met him.

Cosette is glancing over too now, looking very curious. Éponine gets to her feet and Montparnasse watches how she hugs first Marius and then Cosette. _Actually_ hugs, the same way she hugs him when he can’t stop her. She lingers to say something more and then she gets up to the car, getting in with a slightly too nonchalant: “Hi.”

Montparnasse snorts and starts the engine again.

“That was Cosette,” Éponine says in the exact same tone of voice.

“I guessed,” Montparnasse smirks. Éponine and her student friends…

There’s a short silence while they drive off and suddenly she starts up: “I think you’d like her. There’s a party on Sunday, you should come.”

“I can’t,” Montparnasse says, turning a corner.

“Alright, no need to be jerk about it,” Éponine huffs.

Montparnasse looks at her. She genuinely looks nettled. “No really,” he says. “I’m going to some museum thing with— someone.”

That was a mistake. He really shouldn’t have said that. The sulky expression is certainly gone from Éponine’s face, but it’s replaced with one of incredulous curiosity. “To a museum?” she echoes. “With who?”

“None of your business,” Montparnasse grunts, eyes on the road. But he knows this isn’t going to work.

“You’re going on a _date_ , to a _museum_?” Éponine demands. “Like hell that isn’t my business.” She’s grinning now.

“It’s not a date,” Montparnasse snaps. “I don’t go on dates.”

“I know you don’t,” Éponine says. “Which is why I need to know who exactly it was that tricked you into one!”

She’s having a laugh and Montparnasse doesn’t want her to laugh about this. If he doesn’t tell her she’ll never shut up about it. “Their name is Jehan,” he says curtly. “And it’s not a date.”

A rather abrupt silence fills the car.

Montparnasse glances sideways to see Éponine staring at him.

“Jehan Prouvaire?” she asks finally.

 _Fuck_. Montparnasse had certainly not expected that, but he’s not about to let on how much this bothers him. “Can’t be too many Jehan’s out there,” he says indifferently.

Éponine shifts in her seat. “They’re… they’re not your usual type.”

“No shit,” Montparnasse bites. “Remember the not a date part?” That came out rather more aggressive than he had meant it.

“No, I mean—” Éponine makes a strange noise. “Jehan is so…soft.”

Soft. There’s that word again. Exactly what Feuilly had said. Like that’s _all_ that needs to be said. “Hence the museum,” he says coolly.

“That isn’t a date,” Éponine adds slowly.

“Exactly,” Montparnasse grunts.

The silence returns. Montparnasse is glad he can pretend to be focussed on driving, because he really wants to know how Éponine knows Jehan. He refuses to ask her though. He absolutely refuses.

“Jehan is friends with Marius,” Éponine volunteers rather suddenly.

Friends with _Marius_? Montparnasse makes a noise that is incredulous enough to be insulting.

“Yeah,” she says as if that noise was a genuine question. “I’ve met them a couple times at parties…”

“Your student hang-outs,” Montparnasse snarks. For some reason the idea of Jehan being a part of that weirds him out. It _really_ weirds him out. Of course they are a full person with a life and friends and family and whatever else it is that makes a normal person’s existence, but they shouldn’t know Éponine. They shouldn’t know Marius. It’s bad enough that they know Feuilly. They shouldn’t know _anyone_ that Montparnasse knows. It doesn’t make sense. The fact that they know _Montparnasse_ doesn’t make sense.

“How did you meet them?” Éponine asks and her tone of voice is so bloody cautious that Montparnasse refuses to give her anything beyond a shrug.

That stupid silence returns again, but after a while Éponine says slowly: “The nymph...”

Montparnasse grimaces.

“I _knew_ that rose looked familiar!” Éponine cries. “That was Jehan, wasn’t it? Your ridiculous aesthetic meeting!”

“Are you expecting confetti or something?” Montparnasse sneers. “Yeah, that was them.”

“So you _did_ see them again afterwards,” Éponine says.

“Is that a trick question?” Montparnasse says snarkily.

Éponine sits back with a bemused expression. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“I don’t fucking know, but whatever you’re so pissy about I suppose,” she says.

Montparnasse scoffs, but he quickly tries for a change in mood. “I was stuck in traffic for you,” he says, catching his normal complaining tone. “And I had to see Pontmercy’s face.”

“God you’re dramatic,” Éponine groans, letting her head drop back.

The tension in the air is dispersing though, so that’s alright.

“What kind of museum you going to?” she asks. “Anything fun?”

“Something about death,” Montparnasse says vaguely.

“Sounds like Jehan,” Éponine nods.

“Yeah, what is up with that?” Montparnasse hums.

“I don’t know,” Éponine laughs. “Comes with the poetry I guess.” She snorts. “I don’t know them that well, but Marius said when he met Jehan the first thing they asked him was if he believed in reincarnation and if you’d remember the pain of your death.”

Montparnasse smiles involuntarily. He can practically hear Jehan say it. He can also see Marius’ freaked out expression. He smiles a little wider. It’s still a weird idea that Éponine knows Jehan, but in a strange way it’s kind of nice to hear her talk about them.

“Tell me if it’s any good, will you,” Éponine says, looking out of the window. “The museum I mean. Maybe I’ll want to go.”

Montparnasse nods vaguely and he keeps his eyes carefully on the road, pretending not to see Éponine’s thoughtful glance in his direction.

♦♦♦

That Sunday it rains that it pours. Montparnasse groans when he wakes up to the sight of grey clouds. When he was younger, rainy days had been good. People hurrying along trying not to get wet don’t look up from under their caps and hoods, which means they don’t pay attention to their purses and backpacks. But nowadays rainy days are days to stay _inside_. It’s Sunday too, no reason to go outside if it hadn’t been for—

His phone screen lights up on the bedside table. Sullenly Montparnasse drags it towards him.

 **Jehan** : I’ll be there at one! :D

Montparnasse groans and rolls out of bed.

It’s no use properly doing his hair, this weather will mess it up anyway. He does the bare minimum he can live with and throws on his leather jacket. He also drags his boots out of his closet, no loafers in this damn weather.

When Jehan appears at five minutes past one they are wearing boots too. Montparnasse stares at them, standing in the doorway. Their boots are bright yellow and they _almost_ match their flowery umbrella, but not really, because of course they don’t. Their forelock is frizzing, but the rest of their hair is in a messy braid.

“Hi!” they chime happily and somehow they remind Montparnasse of a bird again.

“Hi,” he says and he has to admit, seeing Jehan in person again throws him a little. Selfies are not the same. Jehan is still…Jehan. Every bit of them just a little too much for him.

“I like your boots,” Jehan says cheerfully and they carry on in one breath: “The bus leaves in fifteen minutes, I looked it up.”

Montparnasse can hardly think of anything worse than getting on a bus full of damp strangers. “I’ll drive us,” he offers. “It’ll be faster.” That’s highly debatable, but it’ll be more comfortable.

“You can drive?” Jehan says. It sounds more impressed than surprised, but Montparnasse still pulls a face at them. “I didn’t mean it like that!” Jehan says hastily. “ _I_ can’t drive. I took lessons once, but I was terrible at it.”

Montparnasse hums as he pulls the door shut behind him. By the time he actually tried for his licence he hadn’t needed a lot of lessons anymore. The only criticisms the instructor had had was that he drove too fast.

“Don’t you want to get under my umbrella?” Jehan asks when he steps out into the rain.

“The car is right—” Montparnasse begins, but Jehan is already at his elbow and holding the umbrella up so it covers both of them. They’re suddenly so close that he can feel them beside him and a distracted part of his brain concludes that they smell like rosemary.

“Right,” Montparnasse mutters. “Car’s over there.”

Jehan is walking very close and Montparnasse wonders if they do this with everyone. Maybe they’re like Brujon, he’s always trying to touch people to show them he likes them. Not that Jehan actually _is_ touching him, not quite.

“Thank you for coming with me,” Jehan says when they get into the car.

“Sure,” Montparnasse mutters. He’s more tense than he likes to be and maybe Jehan can tell, because they wander pleasantly from one subject to another without pressing him to reply in any way.

“Am I distracting?” Jehan asks rather suddenly. “From your driving I mean?”

Montparnasse smirks. “No, go ahead.” As long as he doesn’t look at them, he’s fine. He’s used to driving with Babet talking his ear off.

“Oh, ok,” Jehan says, colouring a little.

Montparnasse glances at them and since they fall silent regardless of his assurances, he asks: “So what’s this thing about, anyway?”

“You didn’t look at the website?” Jehan asks, frowning slightly.

“I’d prefer to hear what you expect of it,” Montparnasse hums.

Jehan’s expression brightens and Montparnasse quickly fixes his eyes on the road again. “I like visual art,” they say. “Maybe because I’m not very good at it myself.”

“You do calligraphy,” Montparnasse points out.

“Yes, but I don’t draw,” Jehan says. “Drawing and painting...making pictures out of nothing… That’s magic.”

Montparnasse stays quiet. He’s never really thought about that so deeply. Most people know how to make something or other.

“Do you draw?” Jehan asks curiously.

Montparnasse shakes his head. He scribbles to remember things, sketches every now and again. But none of that counts. Jehan doesn’t ask again and instead talks about stories captured in images until they arrive at the museum.

“To be honest,” they say softly when they make their way inside after having gotten their tickets . “I wanted to go if only for the Waterhouse pieces.”

“Who’s Waterhouse?” Montparnasse asks.

Jehan makes a frantic noise and a moment later Montparnasse is being dragged through the museum. He’s not sure when Jehan grabbed his hand, but they are holding on to it now. Their hand is so warm it makes his own feel cold. Jehan doesn’t let go until they’ve arrived at a canvas that depicts, as far as Montparnasse can tell, someone that’s just been executed. Maybe not surprising considering the theme of this exhibition, but he still hadn’t expected it. Especially considering Jehan’s excitement.

“Waterhouse,” Jehan says and their voice is almost a reverent whisper.

Montparnasse looks at the painting. Auburn hair spread out on snowy flagstones, scattered doves… He glances at Jehan. Their eyes are fixed on the victim’s face and Montparnasse doesn’t think he has ever seen anyone so absorbed in anything. Jehan’s face is open and free of judgement, even free of the admiration Montparnasse had expected to see there. They are looking at that painting as if it is speaking to them and they are trying to listen without bias.

Silently Montparnasse folds his hands on his back and glances at the plaque beside the painting. _Saint Eulalia_. That explains the Roman guards, he supposes. If the figure lying dead is a woman, she must be very young. He’s suddenly aware of Jehan’s eyes on him and glances down. Jehan smiles and Montparnasse is afraid they will ask him what he thinks of it. He won’t be able to give a good answer. Not good enough to satisfy Jehan at least, he doesn’t think.

“Is this your favourite?” he asks.

“My favourite Waterhouse?” Jehan asks. “No. But I don’t think I have a favourite…” They look lovingly at the painting a moment longer and then they say softly: “Will you come look at Ophelia with me?”

They move their hand like they want to grab his again, but they don’t.

“Yes,” Montparnasse says and he follows Jehan to the next room.

To Montparnasse’s surprise Jehan has no problem with walking straight past rows and rows of paintings without giving them a second glance. They always come back though. Montparnasse follows them criss-cross through the museum and after a while he lets go of the vague apprehension that Jehan will demand an informed opinion. It seems Jehan hardly has opinions to give themself. They talk of some of the paintings like they are old friends, but they have no judgements to give on the skill of the painter or the merit of the compositions. They spend most of their time in comfortable silence. Until they reach the medieval art that is. It turns out that the late medieval period is Jehan’s speciality and Montparnasse can barely repress his smiles once they start talking about it. Now he knows there’s at least one other subject that gets them just as riled up as poetry. He’s having a good time. Genuinely.

“Oh my god,” Jehan squeals, struggling to keep their voice down. “That one looks just like my mom!”

Montparnasse looks at the painting they’re looking at. “Really?” he asks, surprised. That person doesn’t look anything like Jehan.

“Totally,” Jehan assures him and they fumble with their phone. Taking pictures isn’t allowed, technically.

“Go on,” Montparnasse grins, looking around. “No one’s watching.”

Jehan flashes him a shy grin and quickly takes a picture. “You hungry?” they ask, looking up from their phone.

“I could eat,” Montparnasse shrugs. “I could definitely go for a coffee.”

“Great,” Jehan smiles and they lead the way to the cafeteria.

When they’ve both sat down with a drink and a piece of cake that Montparnasse isn’t at all convinced is worth what they paid for it, Jehan takes out their phone again.

“Look.” They scroll through their photos and hold it out to Montparnasse. “That’s me and my moms,” they say.

Montparnasse sees too women sitting together, Jehan draping one arm around each from behind, their smiling face just visible above their heads. Neither woman is red headed, but Jehan does look a lot like the left one. And their smile resembles the right one, who really does look rather like that painting from just now. They all look really happy.

“Cool,” Montparnasse says.

Jehan hums happily and puts the phone back in their pocket. “If I could drive I’d go visit more often,” they sigh. “But I’m going home next month.”

Montparnasse stirs his coffee and watches the foam swirl. “That’s nice.”

“Yeah... When I moved out things were weird for a while. They didn’t really talk about it to me, but I think they had…problems? I don’t know, really. But they’re seeing some sort of couples therapist now and I think they’re doing better. Sounds like it anyway.”

“That’s good.” Montparnasse isn’t sure why Jehan is telling him this and he doesn’t know what to answer. He supposes talking about families could be normal small talk, for people like Jehan at least. It isn’t among his friends. “They live far away then?” he asks.

“Not too far, couple cities,” Jehan says. They open their mouth as if to ask something and then close it again.

Montparnasse leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his coffee. He can tell Jehan wants to ask. But they won’t, they’re too considerate. He smiles faintly. “Are your mothers into history and stuff too?”

Jehan looks relieved and happily starts talking about their parents. Apparently they met while doing the flowers and the catering for a particularly horrible wedding. Jehan gets starry-eyed talking about it and Montparnasse is absolutely certain that this must be an embellished story, but he doesn’t argue. Maybe part of him wants to believe that a florist and a caterer fell in love at first sight just so that they could become parents to Jehan Prouvaire. That’s how it should have happened anyway.

By the time they’re walking back to the car Montparnasse feels like he has seen every inch of the museum and his feet hurt. He did have fun though. He really did and he’s low-key considering asking Jehan if they want to grab something to eat, when they say:

“Um, if you don’t mind, could you drop me off at a friend’s?”

“Sure,” Montparnasse nods without missing a beat. On second thought, it’s probably better to end the day here. Quitting while you’re ahead and all that.

Jehan gives him directions to a part of town he’s rarely been to and has him park in front of a large building that must have been some type of industrial build in a past life. Instead of getting out of the car, they look at him hesitantly.

Montparnasse makes a questioning sound.

“Would you like to come with?” Jehan asks, a little awkwardly.

“No, I’m good,” Montparnasse says. If Jehan’s going over here at this time it’s probably for dinner and he’s not eating with strangers.

“Just for a minute?” Jehan pleads and Montparnasse swears he doesn’t know how it happened, but suddenly he’s following Jehan to the front door of the building.

“On Sundays we usually hang out here,” Jehan tells him, unlocking the door.

“Who’s we?” Montparnasse asks and he adds: “Do you have the key to all your friend’s houses?”

“No,” Jehan says. “But we basically all have a key to R’s house.”

That still doesn’t answer the question who ‘we’ is, but Montparnasse decides to let it go. He follows Jehan up several flights of stairs and he is beginning to regret this.

“Jehan…” he begins. “I don’t think—”

“Please?” Jehan says. “Just to say hi, you’ll like R.” Suddenly their hand is on his arm and Montparnasse makes a relenting movement with his head.

Jehan’s smile flashes bright and they pull him up another flight of stairs and then straight into an apparently unlocked apartment.

“Hi guys!” Jehan chimes happily. Montparnasse wishes they’d let go of his damn arm. Being just unable to feel their fingers through the leather of his jacket is…distracting. “This is my friend P—”

“Oh, _no_ Jehan.”

Jehan stops mid-sentence and Montparnasse gives his best unimpressed stare to a young man with scruffy hair and something that isn’t stubble and certainly not a beard yet that _desperately_ needs a razor taken to it. He is holding a glass and a bottle of wine, but hasn’t started pouring yet and now holds the two objects in front of him uselessly while giving Jehan a look of utter dismay.

“ _No_ Jehan,” he repeats. “There must be balance in the world. You can bring me beautiful people and you can bring me fashionable people, but you _cannot_ trust people who are both.”

“I resent that,” a broad shouldered man speaks up from a couch in the corner.

“You needn’t, Bahorel,” the scruffy man winks.

“Fuck you, R,” the other yells merrily.

“This is Grantaire,” Jehan says helpfully, smiling up at Montparnasse, who is still deciding whether the host just complimented or insulted him. At least Jehan has finally released his arm.

“Welcome, have a drink, you’re gonna need it,” Grantaire says generously and hands Montparnasse the empty glass. He then proceeds to walk off with the bottle.

Montparnasse raises his eyebrows and Jehan giggles. It’s apologetic, but an actual giggle. The sound takes Montparnasse by surprise and he’s actually thankful when the big guy called Bahorel yells: “Is this the Charming Thief?” Both because it’s a distraction and because Jehan turns absolutely scarlet. It’s oddly gratifying to know that Jehan talked about him.

“This is _Montparnasse_ ,” Jehan says, stoutly ignoring their own blush. “That’s Bahorel—” Montparnasse receives a wide grin and a wave. “—and Combeferre in the corner—” A young man with short black curls and light brown skin glances at him over the top of his glasses and smiles. “—and Enjolras on the couch, but he’s not available right now.”

The one called Enjolras is not so much lying on as melting into the couch, sprawled out on his stomach. All Montparnasse can really see is a red hoodie and a tangle of blonde hair. The scruffy Grantaire has made his way over to the same couch at that point and executes a complex manoeuvre that ends up with him sitting on the couch and the dead-to-the-world Enjolras resting his head on his lap. Montparnasse has seen enough. Four people – or even six if he counts Jehan and himself – is not enough to make a crowd. Not enough to disappear in, which means he’s the very obvious odd man out among a group of old friends. That means he’s leaving.

“Well,” he says. “This has been fascinating, but I need to get going.”

Jehan spins around and gives him a dismayed look. “You’re not staying?” they ask.

“I agreed to drop you off, you wanted me to come up with you, I have done both,” Montparnasse points out. He’s not going to stay here. There’s hardly anything more uncomfortable than being in someone _else’s_ comfort zone. Besides, spending Sunday evening with a bunch of university boys is not his idea of a good time.

“You could stay and have a drink before you go,” Jehan tries, but then their face falls. “Oh, no, you have to drive home.”

“Yeah,” Montparnasse snarks, putting down the empty glass. “You guys seem really responsible on the alcohol front. Blondie there is out cold.”

“Enjolras? Oh no,” Jehan says reassuringly. “He’s just hosted a three day student convention on the legal principles of the free democratic state.”

There is no way Montparnasse can take a sentence like that seriously. “So, is he tired or depressed about wasting his time?” he asks.

The blonde head on Grantaire’s lap stirs.

“Oh,” Grantaire sighs. “You woke him up.”

Enjolras drags himself upright until he’s sitting up on his knees. “It was _not_ a waste of—” He stops and stares at Montparnasse.

Montparnasse stares back. Enjolras is beautiful. There’s no two ways about it, he just is. His red hoodie is a disgrace and his blonde hair is a tangled mess, but his features are unnaturally regular and his eyes are a brilliant blue. Montparnasse is both impressed and slightly offended.

Grantaire is glancing between him and Enjolras with a slight frown on his forehead.

Enjolras blinks groggily. “Who are you?” he says eventually.

“This is Parnasse!” Jehan chirps happily.

“Montparnasse,” he corrects them.

“Okay,” Enjolras says, seemingly accepting that if Jehan knows his name his presence here must be justified. “And what is your problem with democracy?”

 _What is your problem with democracy_. He asks the question as if Montparnasse has insulted his mother. Montparnasse opens his mouth.

“Careful now,” Bahorel chuckles behind him.

Montparnasse ignores him. “I have no problem with it,” he says. “It doesn’t work, but that doesn’t mean I have a problem with it.”

Bahorel sucks in his breath.

“Nothing just _works_ ,” Enjolras snaps. “We have to _make_ it work. _You_ have to make it work.”

Montparnasse glances around the room, but everyone is looking as if this is a normal topic for a Sunday night and perfectly reasonable demand to make of someone you have literally met a second ago. He looks back at Enjolras. There’s a blush on his pale cheeks and Montparnasse can tell he really _cares_ about this. Actually fucking cares. He glances at Jehan. These are their friends…

“Whatever, man,” he shrugs. “Sure, you’ll make it work. I bet the two of you will be really happy together.”

Bahorel laughs at the exasperated sound that comes out of Enjolras’ mouth, but Montparnasse doesn’t hear him because Jehan lets out a giggle again and then quickly presses their hand to their nose when they snort. Montparnasse has never heard them snort. He didn’t know making Jehan snort was a _possibility_.

“ _Democracy_ ,” Enjolras begins pointedly and Montparnasse looks away from Jehan with both reluctance and astonishment. He’s really not going to let this go?

“Democracy—” Enjolras repeats, with just the slightest drowsy slur to his voice, “—does not guarantee the most skilful government, but it produces something that government cannot manufacture: civil activity! Something restless and all-pervading that can create the _best_ kind of society, if only it’s given the chance.”

Montparnasse grimaces. “Alright, I get it,” he says. “Democracy gives you fuzzy feelings.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “More of dictatorship guy myself, but different strokes, right.”

He can see the disbelief flaring up in the blue eyes, but Enjolras also seems to be wobbling slightly. Montparnasse doesn’t take credit for that, the guy looks absolutely exhausted.

Before either of them can say anything else, however, the bespectacled Combeferre speaks up calmly: “A dictatorship holds no true power. It is based on violence and therefore cannot have any political power.”

Great, now he’s in an argument with _two_ overachieving idiots on a topic that he does not give a shit about. Montparnasse gives him a level stare. “Look, I _really_ don’t care,” he says.

Combeferre isn’t fazed. “Violence is not the essence of power, it is the opposite,” he points out. “Power is community, power is cooperation. _Power_ is what is created when people act in unison. As soon as the people turn against the dictator, the dictator will fall. Power does not reside in those who issue commands but in citizens who follow them.”

Montparnasse wonders if he could get away with just walking out the door.

Combeferre is still not done. “Violence can destroy power,” he says. “Because it can break the relationships of trust that power is based on, but it can never gain power.”

There is a short silence and Montparnasse glances from Combeferre, who is looking at him intently, to Enjolras, who is still sitting on his knees on the couch and frowning. Bahorel and Grantaire are grinning silently and Jehan looks somewhere between amused and apologetic. Montparnasse isn’t sure if they want to apologise for or _to_ him. He needs to get out of here.

“Well, I’d argue if I cared,” he says, looking at Combeferre indifferently. “But like I said, I don’t. So—”

He is interrupted by Enjolras who bursts out: “Why’d you have to muddle my Tocqueville with Arendt.”

Combeferre’s answer is immediate and _very_ detailed and Montparnasse turns away from them both to look at Jehan. They give him a strange sort of smile, half-fond and half-uncertain. Enjolras and Combeferre are still picking up steam and Enjolras, who Montparnasse guesses has to continually be upset about _something_ , is beginning to look increasingly like Gavroche does when he’s preparing to throw a tantrum. That is something Montparnasse would actually stay to see, but sadly Enjolras merely shakes his head and mutters resentfully:

“And yet, Arendt wishes to separate love and passion from politics.”

Instead of Combeferre, it’s Grantaire that speaks up this time. “Only because she holds that the public nature of politics will corrupt love, since it is supposed to burn in private…” he says, turning his head towards Enjolras without losing his comfortable position on the couch. “And because she would not subject love to the restraints of a sound political order, because she thinks the demands of the heart could not endure it.”

Jehan smiles and Montparnasse is almost willing to count that as a merit of philosophy.

Grantaire smiles too, looking at Enjolras’ tired, disgruntled face. “Maybe she’d change her views if she met you,” he says.

Montparnasse is ready to laugh at that, but to his astonishment, it works.

Enjolras slumps forward, wrapping his arms around Grantaire’s neck and muttering something unintelligible into his shoulder. Grantaire laughs softly, pulling him into his lap.

Montparnasse turns away from the inexplicably philosophy fuelled cuddle session. He is leaving before someone else starts monologueing.

At precisely that moment, however, the door bursts open and someone with frizzy hair sweeps in and cries: “Hello! How are my favourite people!”

Before he can even turn around Montparnasse feels arms hugging him from behind. It’s over almost before he realizes it’s happening, because the new arrival immediately lets go to swing their arms around Jehan, but it still leaves Montparnasse with clenched fists. The whirlwind of affection crouches to greet Bahorel and has wrapped his arms around both Grantaire and Enjolras, turning the couch into the stage for a strange cuddle-threesome for a moment, before suddenly turning around and staring at Montparnasse.

“Oh!” he laughs, genuinely surprised. “I’m sorry! I don’t know you yet!”

_Yet._

“This is Montparnasse,” Jehan says hastily, smiling happily.

Courfeyrac’s eyes widen in delight. “ _You’re_ Parnasse?” he cries.

“ _Mont_ parnasse,” he corrects pointedly. Coming here was a mistake.

“It’s so good to meet you, I’m Courfeyrac!”

Montparnasse shakes the outstretched hand, because Jehan is beaming at him and what can he do?

“Jehan told us all about you!” Courfeyrac grins. “ _Eventually_ ,” he adds meaningfully.

Montparnasse slants his head and looks at Jehan. There’s a blush creeping up behind their freckles again. “Is that so?” he says.

“It’s a good story,” they mutter defensively.

“And for a good cause,” Courfeyrac chimes in. “They showed you what they did with the mirror, right? Jehan makes the most gorgeous things. It’s unfair!” That last sentence is accompanied by him nuzzling against the side of Jehan’s head, like this unfairness is something to be cuddled away.

As Jehan wraps their arms around Courfeyrac in response Montparnasse feels a strange tightness in his limbs that he’d rather not investigate more closely.

“Well, you got snapped at by Enj, lectured by Ferre and hugged by Courf, that’s basically the full treatment,” Bahorel’s voice rumbles from his spot on the floor. He drags himself to his feet and digs a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “You want a cigarette to go with that?”

Montparnasse takes one. He appreciates the offer and he can also appreciate the matching burgundy shirt and shoes Bahorel is wearing. It makes him by far the best dressed person in here – excluding himself of course.

“No smoking,” Enjolras says, sliding off Grantaire’s lap and giving Bahorel a reproachful look. “I thought we all agreed to be supportive.”

Bahorel looks confused for a second and then he flinches. “Shit, R, I’m sorry.”

“How easy it is,” Grantaire sighs. “To forget the suffering that does not affect us directly.”

Bahorel snorts and the others laugh, but Enjolras pulls such a face that Montparnasse guesses it’s a reference to something or other. “I’m only trying to help,” Enjolras huffs.

“I know, Ange, and you’re the best, but it’s fine, really,” Grantaire smiles.

“Nah, we can go outside,” Bahorel says. He turns to Montparnasse and frowns. “Where the hell’s your cigarette? You were holding it a literal second ago.”

It’s in Montparnasse’s breast pocket. He put it away because it seemed smoking was off the table and because it demonstrates two important facts. Firstly, that once you give something to him you shouldn’t expect it back; and secondly, that he is capable of making things disappear, regardless of whether they were given to him or not.

“I’d rather save it for the road,” he says with a nod that _could_ be a nod of thanks.

“You’re leaving?” Jehan says, turning away from Courfeyrac with an expression Montparnasse thinks is just a little too disappointed. He’s not staying though. No way.

“Got to be somewhere,” he hums. Somewhere being somewhere _else_.

“Okay,” Jehan says. “I’ll walk you out.”

“He just walked you in,” Enjolras points out from the couch, drawing most of the attention in the room towards himself for a moment.

Montparnasse makes use of that by walking out the door without another word. Jehan does follow him however.

“Sorry about Enj, and Ferre,” they smile shyly.

“Don’t worry about it,” Montparnasse hums. He _does_ feel justified in his opinion of university students though. At the top of the stairs he hesitates, it seems weird to make Jehan walk all the way down again.

“I had hoped Marius would have been here already,” Jehan says suddenly. “You know him, right?”

Montparnasse blinks.

“He’s late,” Jehan says regretfully. “He’s bringing Cosette and Éponine. He said she’s a friend of yours.”

“Eh, yeah,” Montparnasse replies, covering up the short burst of panic he just felt. _This_ is the party Éponine invited him along to? In that case he really needs to get out of here. If Éponine finds him here she won’t let him leave. On the other hand. Regardless of whether he’s here or not Éponine will be here with Jehan… Montparnasse doesn’t like that idea much either.

“Everything alright?” Jehan asks and Montparnasse realises he’s been quiet for a little too long.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sure. Sorry, I’ve got to go. Tell Éponine I said hi.” He can’t trust Éponine not to interrogate Jehan, but he can trust her not to run her mouth about him. That will have to do for now.

“Alright,” Jehan smiles. “See you next time then? I had fun.”

It sounds so natural Montparnasse smiles back. He’s making a big deal out of this for no reason. They hung out with him, showed him some weird art, introduced him to even weirder friends and they had fun. It’s a normal bloody Sunday. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

Jehan smiles a little wider and asks: “Do you do hugs?”

He doesn’t, of course, but he doesn’t go to museum’s with pretty redheads that make him smile by talking about medieval manuscripts either. “No,” he says and he leans down a little.

Jehan makes a happy sound and hugs him, quickly but firmly. “Safe drive home then,” they say.

He nods. “Have fun at your party.”

“I will!” Jehan chimes and they step back while he heads down the stairs.

Montparnasse looks up one time before the landing is out of sight. Jehan is just turning away and the way they move is light and happy. Montparnasse gives a shake with his shoulders and continues down the stairs. This was a pretty good afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thought of Jehan and Parnasse walking in the rain was directly inspired (a very long time ago) by [this adorable drawing](http://deboracabral.tumblr.com/post/161870763428/parnasse-doesnt-like-what-the-rain-does-to-his) by the wonderful Débora.  
> The painting by Waterhouse is [this one](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Eulalia_\(Waterhouse_painting\)%20).  
> And believe you me, before my sister stopped me there was even more useless social philosophy in this.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3
> 
> PS. As evident from Enjolras and Grantaire's behaviour, this fic takes place _after_ the events [Noscitur A Sociis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13486563/chapters/30925944) ;)


	7. Montparnasse can best Éponine

Montparnasse knows he’s not as good at poker as Claquesous, but he’s better at bluffing. Claquesous can hide behind his hair all he wants, he still has tells. Fauntleroy and Brujon are still learning, Gueulemer is _terrible_ and Babet doesn’t pay enough attention. Éponine does though, Éponine is _very_ good. Which is why the guys are always in two minds about having her over.

“Oh my god, you tidied,” Éponine gasps when she steps into Claquesous and Babet’s apartment, trying to make it sound like she’s choking on shock.

“No they didn’t,” Fauntleroy says, without looking up from their phone. “I did. Couldn’t hear myself think.” They are hanging in one of the chairs at the table, tapping their foot and texting at the same time.

“ _Can_ you hear over all that neon you’re wearing?” Babet asks, sounding genuinely concerned for a moment before grinning obnoxiously as soon as Fauntleroy looks up.

Montparnasse sits down opposite Fauntleroy. “Is Brujon coming?” he asks.

“Nah,” they shake their head. “He’s babysitting his million siblings.” Their eyes leave their screen for a moment and they flash a grin in Éponine’s direction. “He asks to say hi to Zelma though.”

Éponine sniffs. “Fat chance,” she scoffs and Montparnasse smirks. Azelma is not interested in Brujon, which is probably good for him, seeing as Éponine would probably make his life extremely difficult if she was.

Claquesous emerges from his room and sits down next to Fauntleroy, just like Montparnasse had expected him to. “Hey Ponine,” he hums.

“Sous,” she nods. “Broken any toes lately?”

“None,” he grins lazily.

“Disappointing,” she says, shaking her head mournfully.

“Why don’t you come to shows anymore?” Fauntleroy asks, eyes looking up from behind their blue curls and their thumb actually lifting off their phone for a moment.

“Dude, I have class almost every day,” Éponine grimaces.

“You could come on weekends,” they say and go right back to texting. They give out a short laugh and add: “Brujon says bring Zelma.”

Éponine’s reply is considerably ruder this time and Montparnasse sits back with a slight grin to listen to the bickering. Gueulemer isn’t here yet so they can’t begin anyway. Babet is rummaging around in the kitchen corner of the living room, making an unnecessary amount of noise and turning round to egg Éponine on every now and again.

There’s a loud knock on the door.

“Busy,” Babet calls with his head in a cupboard.

Montparnasse and Claquesous look at each other. Montparnasse stays put. This is not his apartment. Claquesous rolls his eyes, gets up and trudges to the hallway to let Gueulemer in.

“You have a key, man,” his voice comes through the open door.

Gueulemer grunts something in reply and Montparnasse turns round on his chair when they enter the room. “You better not have lost them again.”

“Put them away somewhere safe,” Gueulemer replies. He smiles when he sees Éponine and gives her chair a friendly push.

“Hey Gueul,” she smiles back.

He nods and sits down with a groan. He must have worked late and come straight from the workshop. “Minette’s birthday is next month,” he announces, rather abruptly.

Montparnasse looks up. “You say that like we need to do something for it.”

Gueulemer doesn’t answer that.

Montparnasse and Claquesous both grin.

“What?” Montparnasse asks amusedly. “Are you going to throw her a party?”

“No,” Gueulemer grunts. “Just thought it’d be nice to remember it.”

Claquesous opens his mouth with a smirk, but Éponine cuts him off.

“First of all, cut it out with the synchronized smiling, it’s fucking creepy,” she admonishes, pointing accusingly between Montparnasse and Claquesous. “Second, Minette is an insanely chill landlady, she deserves presents for putting up with the lot of you.”

“Third of all, snacks,” Babet says and he tosses some bags of random sweet and savoury snacks onto the table.

“You have a drink to go with that?” Gueulemer speaks up, stretching his arms above his head.

Babet tosses him a bottle of cider and actually bothers to walk to give Claquesous a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. He looks questioningly at Éponine. “Beer?”

Montparnasse grins quietly. Babet made jokes about having to get Éponine drunk so she wouldn’t take so much money off them this time. Not that he’s ever seen Éponine overdo it, not enough to mess with her poker skills anyway.

Éponine looks tempted. “I have to drive home…” she says reluctantly.

“Shame,” Babet grins, turning around with a bottle of one of Éponine’s favourites in his hand.

“Fuck you,” she groans.

“You can sleep over,” Montparnasse offers. It’s been a while since she crashed at his place without Azelma or Gavroche, but it’s never been a big deal before.

Éponine tips back on her chair. “Hmm,” she says, holding up her hands to weigh the options. “Beer, having to deal with Parnasse in the morning. Beer, having to—”

Montparnasse kicks her chair and she nearly falls backwards. The others snicker.

“ _Jerk_ ,” Éponine gasps. “You could have _killed_ me. Gueul, give me a drink to settle my nerves.”

Gueulemer opens a bottle for her and waves it in front of her face like smelling salts. Éponine grabs it and shoots him a grin.

“We playing or what,” Claquesous complains.

“Yeah,” Fauntleroy says, putting their phone down. “I’m bored.”

Babet sits down and starts dealing.

It takes only a couple rounds for Éponine to start kicking all their asses.

♦

Montparnasse is pleasantly buzzed by the time Claquesous starts talking of kicking them all out. Babet and Gueulemer are still arguing about something, but by now that’s pretty much tradition.

Fauntleroy has gone from chatty to rather quiet and sullen and Claquesous has solved this by steering them towards the couch and pushing a pair of his expensive headphones into their hands.

“They’re staying?” Montparnasse asks.

“Why’d you think I tidied?” Fauntleroy snarks, flopping down on the couch.

“Alright,” Babet yawns. “Everybody _except_ the brightly coloured thing out of my damn house.”

“Bite me,” Fauntleroy hums and they put on the headphones, blocking out the world.

“Up you get,” Gueulemer chuckles, lifting Éponine onto her feet. She got pretty drunk after all.

“ _Thank_ you, sir,” she says dramatically. “Later guys,” she adds with a tired grin.

“Have fun snuggling,” Babet winks as she and Montparnasse move towards the hallway, followed by Gueulemer.

“I’m not getting into his funeral arrangement of a bed,” Éponine scoffs.

“Not if I have any say in it,” Montparnasse says snidely.

Gueulemer mutters something amused and pushes past them, trudging up the stairs with heavy steps.

“Night, Gueul,” Éponine chimes when they reach Montparnasse’s door.

“Night,” he hums and Montparnasse nods.

He unlocks the door and tosses the keys to Éponine so she can lock it behind her.

“That was a good time,” she sighs, throwing her coat onto the couch and wandering straight into Montparnasse’s bedroom to steal a duvet and a pillow. “I’ve missed that.”

Montparnasse snickers. “You’ve missed cheating Babet out of money.”

“I wasn’t cheating,” Éponine says, yawning slightly.

“Sure you weren’t.” Montparnasse takes off his shoes and puts them away while Éponine disappears to his bathroom.

She leaves the door open so he joins her after a while. This is comfortable. He doesn’t mind Éponine being in his space. It helps that this _is_ his space to begin with, of course. Not some place he’s forced to share.

“Urg,” Éponine grunts, glaring at some spots on her skin in the mirror. “Every damn time I switch birth control.”

“Why’d you change it then?” Montparnasse hums.

She fixes him with a level stare. “Are you sure you want me to answer that.”

Montparnasse grimaces. “No,” he decides.

“Good choice, Mister Perfect Skin,” Éponine snarks. With a sigh she pulls her hair up into a pony tail. Her hair is a lot shorter than it used to be. A pity, as far as Montparnasse is concerned.

“Did you retake that test by the way?” he asks, beginning to clean his face.

“Yeah, I did,” Éponine says. There’s a short silence.

“And?” Montparnasse hums.

Éponine grins. “Did pretty well.”

“Nerd,” he smirks at her.

She looks pleased. Drunk, tired, and pleased. Normally she doesn’t have the patience for his evening routine, but this time she leans against the tile wall and watches him, absentmindedly plays with one of her hair ties.

“Cosette offered to study with me,” she says after a while. “For the law thing. Like, she didn’t tutor me or anything, just sat next to me and worked on her own thing. I don’t know why it helped, but it did.”

Montparnasse glances at her. She’s muttering and looking rather sleepy already. He doubts it matters much what he answers. “So Wonder Gal was helpful,” he hums. That seems neutral enough.

“…don’t call her that,” Éponine says after a short silence. “Cosette’s cool.”

Montparnasse gives her a look. So now it’s Cosette who is cool and helpful. Interesting. “Ok,” he says.

Éponine is looking at the ceiling, eyes half-closed. “Cosette is _so_ close with her mom,” she says. “It’s weird. Her mom sounds so nice though. She had Cosette really young…”

With a slightly slanted head Montparnasse tries to determine how much of this is just Éponine rambling and how much of it actually matters to her. Because, strangely, she sounds like it does matter to her. Like Cosette matters. Cosette who invites Éponine along to parties, Montparnasse reminds himself. Well, Cosette _and_ Marius, technically.

“What about Wonder Boy?” he asks.

“Hm?” Éponine asks, blinking the absent look out of her eyes.

“Is Wonder Boy still Wonder Boy,” Montparnasse asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Éponine smirks. “Yeah he is.”

Montparnasse grins.

♦

When Montparnasse gets up the next morning, Éponine is still firmly wrapped in her duvet on the couch. He gives a tug on her pillow in passing and by the time he’s reached the kitchen she groans something that might be “No class today,” immediately followed by retreating further into her cocoon. Montparnasse leaves her alone, but he doesn’t bother being quiet while he makes coffee and breakfast. He does make more coffee than he needs though. Not that it matters. Éponine fell back asleep and she can sleep through anything.

Maybe it has something to do with having to leave while someone else is getting a lie-in, but Montparnasse has very little patience for work that day. A businessman comes in with a woman that he introduces as his wife but that Montparnasse knows for _certain_ isn’t his wife and he has only heard them speak three sentences to each other before he wants to stab them both.

Luckily it’s a Wednesday so he only has the half-day to get through. When he arrives home, however, it’s not to an empty apartment. Apparently Éponine didn’t feel like leaving when she finally woke up. She’s sitting on the couch…with her sister.

“The working forces return!” Éponine grins and she adds: “Zelma needed a break, so I told her she could hole up here.”

“Why the fuck not,” Montparnasse grunts, but he’s actually glad to see Azelma. She looks good, less thin than she did last time.

She’s grinning up at him and points to a bag at the table. “I brought pastries as my pass to enter.”

“Good,” he nods. “I trained you well.”

That’s lunch sorted out for the three of them and while they’re eating, Azelma reveals a hidden motive for coming over.

“I brought my nail stuff,” she says.

“Did you now,” Montparnasse hums.

Azelma looks at him. He looks back silently.

“Come on!” she pleads. “You’re much better at that stuff than Éponine.”

“That’s not hard,” Montparnasse smirks and Éponine gives him a scornful look. “What do you want to learn?” he asks, taking another pastry.

“Glitters?” Azelma suggests.

Montparnasse sighs.

“Water marbling?” she tries.

“Marbling it is,” Montparnasse says. He’d tell her to go bother Fauntleroy about glitter, but where Fauntleroy goes Brujon is usually not far behind, so Éponine probably wouldn’t appreciate that.

“I’ll clean up,” Azelma says as soon as they’ve finished and she grabs the plates and heads to the kitchen.

“Thank you, Zelma,” Éponine says and so deliberately that Montparnasse glances at Éponine’s face for a moment. She doesn't look bothered though. Good. That means it’s going well. Sometimes it seems Éponine worries about her sister twice as much as about the boys. Maybe because she remembers how _she_ was at seventeen… Or maybe because Azelma is so very _unlike_ Éponine at seventeen.

“You and your dishwasher,” Azelma laughs from the kitchen.

“Be grateful,” Montparnasse calls back ominously. “I would have made you wash up otherwise.”

The noises coming from the kitchen are appropriately scoffing. Éponine looks rather proud. So is Montparnasse, Azelma is usually far too compliant.

“Right,” Montparnasse says when she comes back. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Just when Azelma opens her beauty case and Éponine sits down beside her, Montparnasse’s phone rings. He looks.

It’s Jehan.

Montparnasse only has a split-second to decide what to do and he’s very certain that walking out of the room to take the call will make _both_ the girls suspicious. Not answering is— it’s not an option.

He picks up, face neutral. “Hi.”

“Hi! It’s Jehan.”

He almost smiles and turns away a little from Éponine and Azelma just in case. “Yes, hi.”

Jehan laughs and continues in a rather hurried manner: “We haven’t really talked a lot since the museum…and the party. And I’ve just been to see a client and it’s quite near you, so I thought, if you’re not busy, maybe I could come over?”

Oh no, Jehan _cannot_ come over. Éponine hasn’t asked about the museum or told him anything about talking to Jehan at the party and Montparnasse would like to keep it that way.

“What do you mean, client?” he asks. It’s the most natural question he could think of to buy time, but it was clearly the wrong one. It makes Azelma and Éponine look round at him.

“Invitations,” Jehan explains cheerfully. “I do calligraphy remember?”

Right. Calligraphy. That makes sense. There’s a silence on the other end of the line.

“Is that Jehan?” Éponine mouths in the background and Montparnasse tries to wave her away.

“So…um?” Jehan starts again.

“Right,” Montparnasse says, trying to ignore Éponine’s increasingly disapproving expression. Why is it so damn hard to say he’s busy? “Actually, I already have people over at the moment, so…”

“Oh…” Jehan sounds disappointed.

“Yeah, maybe—” Montparnasse is cut off as his phone is pulled out of his hand by Éponine.

“Jehan? It’s Éponine!” she says cheerfully, putting it to her ear.

“ _The hell_ —” Montparnasse spits, but she keeps him at arm’s length with a hand on his chest and says with a grin:

“Yeah, of course! No, listen, if you let me do your hair you are one hundred percent invited. Ok. Deal. See you in a bit then.”

She hangs up and smirks at Montparnasse.

“What the fuck was that?” he snaps, yanking his phone out of her hand.

“The asshole-ish behaviour prevention squad,” Éponine deadpans. “You and Jehan are being friends, right? Well, friends hang out with each other’s friends.”

“Who’s Jehan?” Azelma asks.

“A friend, apparently,” Montparnasse says sarcastically. Bloody Éponine.

Azelma wisely doesn’t ask any further questions and Montparnasse stays stubbornly silent. When the bell rings downstairs a while later, he refuses to get up.

“You invited them, you walk,” he says.

“God, you’re an ass,” Éponine laughs and she gets to her feet.

Montparnasse pulls a face at her. He’s still pissed. You don’t invite people to other people’s houses. Especially not the first time. Technically Jehan _has_ been here, of course, but they’ve never been inside. Éponine probably doesn’t know that, but he doesn’t care. It’s still her fault that he has to deal with this now.

Fuck. It’s not like the thought of having Jehan in this apartment has never crossed his mind. It’s just that it’s part of the thoughts he’s trying not to have and the scenarios he has entertained _definitely_ didn’t include Éponine and Azelma.

“Is Jehan a friend of Éponine’s as well?” Azelma asks curiously.

“They’re very friendly,” Montparnasse answers vaguely. He doesn’t have to say anything else, because there are already cheerful voices in the stairwell and a moment later Éponine returns with Jehan in tow.

“Hi!” they chime and Montparnasse needs a full moment to take in their flared jeans and poncho combination. They are actually wearing a flower crown with it as well.

Azelma is clearly just as overwhelmed, although possibly in a different way. Montparnasse sincerely hopes so at least. How can someone be endearing and attractive at the same time?

"Woah,” Azelma says. “You look like a hippie princess."

"Hippie royalty,” Montparnasse corrects her.

"I'll take princess!" Jehan grins. “Hi, I’m Jehan.”

“Azelma, Ponine’s sister.”

“Cool!” They turn their smile from Azelma to Montparnasse.

He smiles back because what the hell, they’re here now. “You want a drink?” he offers.

“Um…tea?” Jehan says shyly.

“I think I can manage that,” Montparnasse drawls.

Jehan smiles at him and Éponine – to Montparnasse’s satisfaction – doesn’t. Instead she says with a sigh:

“Look at all that hair, Zelma. What do you think, elven braids?”

“Definitely elven braids,” Azelma agrees and she adds: “I’d help, but Parnasse has promised to do my nails.”

“ _You’re_ doing your nails,” Montparnasse protests from the kitchen. “I’ll tell you how.”

When he comes back with a mug of tea, Éponine and Azelma are digging through Azelma’s beauty case for hair ties and Jehan is standing beside his cupboard, curiously inspecting the contents.

“You told me you didn’t read books,” they say, holding up Montparnasse’s copy of the Picture of Dorian Gray with a downright delighted expression.

“Often,” Montparnasse corrects.

“But you like this one?” Jehan prompts eagerly.

Montparnasse likes it a lot. Certain parts of it more than others. “Yes,” he replies simply.

“Have you read anything else from Oscar?” Jehan asks, carefully putting the book back. They handle it downright lovingly.

“No,” he says. “I couldn’t be bothered, books are too long.”

Jehan looks like they want to laugh at that, but Éponine pipes up:

“He means he’s too lazy to read them.” She smirks. “He has no problem with books when I’m reading aloud to my brothers.”

Montparnasse scowls at her, but that has exactly zero effect on Éponine.

“Being read to is wonderful,” Jehan sighs in approval, walking away from the cupboard. “Where should I sit?” they ask.

“If I sit on the table and you on a chair I’m at the perfect height,” Éponine decides.

“Mind you don’t break my table,” Montparnasse says, relaxing now the moment is past.

Éponine doesn’t even dignify that with a response.

Montparnasse sits down next to Azelma. “Right, pick three colours,” he says.

While Azelma fusses over her choices, Jehan takes off their flower crown and quickly brushes their hair with one of Azelma’s brushes so Éponine can begin braiding. They’re chatting happily about something that Montparnasse presumes happened at the party. It involves a table getting broken.

At last Azelma chooses her colours and Montparnasse supervises as she messes up her first try.

“Here,” he says. “Hold them like this instead.”

Jehan looks at him from where Éponine is dividing their hair in bunches. There’s a twinkling in their eyes. Montparnasse raises an eyebrow and they shrug happily.

Montparnasse smiles ever so slightly and goes back to fixing Azelma’s nails.

“Zelma never lets me play with her hair anymore,” Éponine laments.

“You dyed it green once,” her sister reminds her accusingly.

“That was _years_ ago!”

“I wanted to dye my hair dark,” Jehan says thoughtfully.

Montparnasse is silently horrified and agrees with Azelma who exclaims:

“With your colour? No!”

Montparnasse listens to the three of them talk in silence. Clearly Jehan and Éponine get along. It sound like they know each other better than he had thought. Just a little though. Actually, this whole thing isn’t so bad. Éponine laughing, Jehan smiling, Azelma gushing at the patterns he’s making on her nails. This is alright.

“Parnasse used to dye his hair,” Éponine says with a grin.

Okay, he takes those thoughts back.

“Really?” Jehan cheers.

“I did a better job of it than you,” Montparnasse says coldly. If he denies it Éponine will only laugh at him some more.

“Yeah,” Azelma snickers. “Green didn’t look very good on you either.”

“Éponine tried to be scene for a while,” Montparnasse smirks at Jehan, who looks delighted with all this information.

“What do you mean _tried_?” Éponine cries. She shamelessly recounts some of her favourite outfits, making Jehan laugh, and Azelma begins to add her own favourites, which are certainly the more disastrous ones.

“You’re in school still, Zel- Azelma?” Jehan asks.

“Yes,” she nods. “Graduating this year though.”

“Hell yeah she is,” Éponine says proudly and Azelma grins.

“Zelma is fine by the way,” she tells Jehan with a smile.

“Okay, Zelma it is,” Jehan smiles back.

“Jehan is a pretty name,” Azelma says. “Is that first or last?”

“First,” Jehan says cheerfully. “I like Prouvaire fine, but it doesn’t really sound like all of me, does it.”

Azelma looks doubtful at that piece of philosophy, but Éponine snickers and says:

“That’s not the reason Parnasse doesn’t use his first name.”

“Oh screw you,” Montparnasse says.

Azelma giggles.

“I’m guessing you don’t like your name?” Jehan says, trying not to laugh.

Montparnasse makes a disgusted sound. “No comment.” It’s just another thing his mother saddled him with.

“He’s being dramatic, it’s really not that bad,” Éponine teases, but instead of begging to know Jehan says:

“My legal name is Jean, I just wanted something less plain.”

“You’re more Jehan than Jean,” Azelma agrees. “When did you change it?”

“I never changed it officially,” Jehan says. “I went to a new high school when I was fourteen and I just introduced myself as Jehan there.” They smile. “My mom picked the name Jean. She’s called Geneviève,” Jehan grins. “She says she was traumatized by fancy names.”

Éponine laughs and Azelma asks amusedly: “What about your dad, does he have a traumatizing name?”

“Marianne,” Jehan winks.

Azelma looks awkward and Montparnasse chuckles.

“You have three more siblings, right?” Jehan asks pleasantly. “I wish I had some.”

“You can borrow mine,” Azelma says, rolling her eyes.

Montparnasse snorts and muses that between Jehan and the Thénardier brothers it might well be a tie as far as stubborn energy goes. He leans back, letting go of Azelma’s hands.

“You’re not going to do the other one?” she pouts.

“I’m not a nail salon,” Montparnasse says. “You saw me do it. You do the other one.”

“But they won’t look as good,” she complains.

“That’s good motivation then,” he smirks.

Azelma whines and Montparnasse looks up into Jehan’s grinning face. Their hair is now a mess of coiling braids. It’s stupidly cute…and this is kind of a good time.

“Do I get to do your hair when you’re done?” Jehan asks Éponine.

“If you can think of something to do with it,” Éponine says unthinkingly.

Not long after she is wearing Jehan’s flower crown while they are trying to give her pigtails.

Montparnasse films them because there is no way he wasn’t going to immortalize this. Maybe Éponine is right about the whole friend’s friends thing. This is a good time. This is good. But that’s the thing about Jehan. Being around them is always good. He’d prefer to not fuck it up. And he feels like he might. Any moment now.

Except not today. Because by the time Jehan leaves – and Éponine offers them a ride, so they all leave together – their hair looks like something out of Lord of the Rings, Éponine is still wearing a flower crown, Azelma is very proud of her nails and Montparnasse has forgotten his frustrating morning. Jehan doesn’t try to hug him again, but they give him the brightest smile as they leave and say:

“This was fun.”

Montparnasse hums and nods.

Jehan hesitates. “…my friends don’t always argue about politics, I promise.”

“Are you sure about that?” Montparnasse smirks.

“Will you let me prove it?” Jehan says, looking up with a smile.

Éponine is busy arguing with Azelma over whether to let her drive or not. Montparnasse gives Jehan a smile. “Maybe.”

Jehan beams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about doing nails. At all.


	8. Montparnasse can handle this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: recreational drug use (first-hand this time, but in a responsible, safe environment).
> 
> There is music in this chapter, if you want to listen along when it comes up here are the links for [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/3VVyLteHZ5xmQrdlltkT89) and [Youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aRPyoPGO2vo&ab_channel=NenaGarcia).

Éponine might have been on to something, Montparnasse has to admit. Surprisingly, hanging out with Jehan _and_ other people is actually easier. That doesn’t mean he invites Jehan over to his apartment again. No, Jehan meeting Éponine is one thing, the guys are a different story. Jehan is blurring the lines, yeah, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to fight like hell to keep some things separate. That’s why he said he was busy when Feuilly invited him over the other week. Montparnasse is sure Jehan asked him to, because Feuilly has _never_ done that before.

No, he’ll deal with having to put up with Jehan’s other student friends instead. By now he has learned that there is actually a pretty big chance of running into Feuilly at one of those hangouts as well. But so far he’s managed to avoid that happening and Montparnasse is determined to delay it as long as possible. Still, if it ever does happen it probably won’t be too hard to make sure he doesn’t have to talk to Feuilly and Jehan at the same time, because one thing is fucking clear: Jehan has too many friends. Too many loud, weird, obnoxiously affectionate friends. Most of them are tiring and most of them – Montparnasse is pretty sure – do not like him much. Big fucking surprise. Still, there’s worse things than hanging out with Jehan and getting on some college boys’ nerves.

And not all of them are _completely_ insufferable. The scruffy one that talks general bullshit is actually good for a laugh. The excitable curly one at least knows how to dress and the big one that looks like he could lift a house kind of reminds him of a more social Gueulemer. The loud blonde that talks ideological prattle is at least fun to rile up. And yes, Montparnasse _does_ remember their names, but there’s no need to let any of them know that.

♦

Montparnasse is sitting at his computer, listening to music with headphones on despite it being deathly quiet in the house. Babet and Claquesous have a show, Gueulemer is wherever and Montparnasse is rather bored.

His phone buzzes and he glances at the screen.

 **Missy** : Hey

 **Missy** : You there?

Montparnasse takes up his phone, knowing very well what will be next. Missy only ever texts him for one thing.

 **Missy** : Mags is out :(   Come over? x

 **Parnasse** : Not tonight. Got stuff to do.

He stares at the message. He sent it without even thinking about it. But it’s not true, is it? He has fuck all to do. Why the hell did he send that? Missy is always good for a fun time and she’s not in the mood for guys all that often. Blowing her off is— His phone buzzes again.

 **Missy** : But I’m booored. There’s nothing and no one to do here

Montparnasse hesitates. His phone buzzes again. Okay, that’s getting a little needy. Except it isn’t Missy this time. It’s Jehan.

 **Jehan** : I saw a crow carrying something shiny today and thought of you :)

Montparnasse is grinning at his phone before he realises it.

 **Parnasse** : I’m honoured

 **Jehan** : Hi! <3

 **Jehan** : They were majestic. Couldn’t get a pic :(

While he’s typing a response another message from Missy arrives. Nothing but a question mark. There’s another single moment of hesitation.

 **Parnasse** : I said not tonight. Sorry cherie x

 **Missy** : Okay :’(

 **Missy** : X

Montparnasse stares at the messages, sinking slowly into his own thoughts until another message from Jehan pops up.

 **Jehan** : It was a rook actually. At least I think so?? Their beak was really pale but I’ve never seen rooks here!

With a vague smile on his face Montparnasse asks what the difference is and he sits back to read the flood of texts about the various crows – no, corvids – that possess the undying affection of Jehan Prouvaire. The last message contains a lot of exclamation marks concerning magpies. It’s hardly an ‘end of conversation’ message, but nothing follows it. Just when Montparnasse is about to text something back Jehan sends:

 **Jehan** : But anyway…

Montparnasse frowns.

 **Parnasse** : Anyway what? You were still on corvids

 **Jehan** : I like corvids

He waits, but once again there is no follow up.

 **Parnasse** : So do I

 **Jehan** : :)

For some reason this doesn’t feel right. Montparnasse doesn’t know what he did, or actually he knows for a fact that he did nothing, but clearly _something_ is the matter. He waits, for what seems like a long time and then he finally gives in.

 **Parnasse** : Did you get busy or is something wrong?

The reply comes so fast that he can only suppose Jehan must have been looking at their screen already.

 **Jehan** : No I’m fine!

It is very rare for Montparnasse to wish he was talking to someone face to face instead of over text, but right now he does. Emojis don’t replace facial expressions.

 **Parnasse** : What were you going to say then?

 **Jehan** : Idk :P

Montparnasse frowns at his phone. Jehan really isn’t acting right.

 **Jehan** : I was rambling

 **Parnasse** : You weren’t

Maybe they were, a little, but the good kind of rambling in any case.

 **Jehan** : I can go on a bit, haha. Just tell me whenever I talk too much about random stuff, okay?

All sorts of things flash through Montparnasse’s mind, but anger is the one most present. This is bullshit and he knows because he recognizes it.

 **Parnasse** : Jehan, tell me about corvids

 **Jehan** : You’re sweet

 **Parnasse** : No I’m not, I’m interested

There’s no reply so Montparnasse keeps typing.

 **Parnasse** : I live with someone that reads plays out loud in the damn stairwell. And another that either doesn’t say a word or won’t shut up about the hollowing out of the music industry. Trust me, when I say I want to hear about something I mean it

There’s a pause and then Jehan starts typing. Then they stop. Then they start again. When the message comes Montparnasse is certain it isn’t their first. It’s very long. And exclusively about blue jays. This time there are messages to follow it though, two of them.

 **Jehan** : You really are sweet though parnasse <3

 **Jehan** : Thank you

For _what_ , he wants to ask. For treating Jehan with the bare minimum of consideration? He doesn’t send that though. Nor does he say anything about how poisonously angry it makes him to think that the world is so shit that it can convince even someone like Jehan – who seems to have grown up in a fucking picture book – that they can’t talk about birds without being weird or annoying. Instead he sends something neutral and evasive, that Jehan still responds to with a string of happy emojis.

He managed to do the right thing at least, or something close enough to the right thing.

♦♦♦

It may be his imagination, but Montparnasse feels like Jehan texts him more often after that. Or maybe he texts _them_ more often. It’s certainly enough to prompt Babet to make dramatic comments at him about damn millennials and their phones. Right before taking out his own phone to go through Violet’s Instagram because he’s a _moron_. A moron still in love with a girl that _may_ be still in love with him, but that is probably trying her level best to stay the fuck away from him, because _none of this bullshit is worth the trouble._

Sundays with nothing to do are garbage. Gueulemer left to go to Louison’s, but Montparnasse didn’t feel like going with him. He doesn’t feel like anything really.

Slowly, like he knows he should know better, he pulls out his phone.

 **Parnasse** : God sundays are boring

He doesn’t have to wait long.

 **Jehan** : Don’t be bored! Come hang out! I’m over at Baz place with R :D

Montparnasse would actually really like to see Jehan right now. He could do with some of their— He doesn’t know what. He could do with some Jehan is all.

 **Jehan** : R says come over :)

Grantaire and Bahorel are without a doubt Jehan’s most tolerable friends. Or the least exasperating. His phone buzzes again.

 **Jehan** : R says don’t misquote me

 **Jehan** : R /said/ “tell him to get his dramatic ass over here”

Montparnasse scoffs.

 **Jehan** : Baz agrees <3

Well, why the hell not? Gueulemer left the car, he has nothing to do, why shouldn’t he go? He gets up, asks Jehan to send him the address and opens his closet in search of an outfit.

♦

To Montparnasse’s surprise the address leads him to a neighbourhood he really didn’t expect to find himself in. By the looks of it these are the sort of homes young families take, if they can afford it. There’s even one of those naïve ‘drive safely, kids at play’ sings hanging underneath the street sign. He checks his phone again, but this is definitely the right street _and_ the right house. With a frown he presses the doorbell. After all it’s been a shockingly long time since anyone has called the police on him, he’s probably overdue.

For a while there is no response, but then he hears the sound of running footsteps inside. A moment later the door swings open.

“Hi!” Jehan beams.

Montparnasse stares. Jehan is wearing a tunic that is definitely a size too big, but it’s white. So are the edges of lace it’s been embellished with and the lace leggings they’re wearing under it. Montparnasse has never seen them in all white. It’s—

“You like it?” Jehan asks cheerfully, stepping aside to let Montparnasse in. “It’s new.”

“Yeah,” Montparnasse swallows. “Looks good on you.” It looks incredibly good on them. He would have guessed white would make them pale, but a soft white like this… It’s perfect.

Jehan looks pleased. “I had a belt,” they say. “But I took it off, for reasons. Look.”

They dart to the other end of the hallway, inexplicably accompanied by a tinkling sound. Montparnasse is _sure_ he’s hearing little bells. Jehan reaches into the pocket of a bright pink coat that hangs among a rather fine collection of wool and leather coats that must be Bahorel’s.

“This one.” They hold up a braided leather sash.

Montparnasse merely nods and doesn’t comment. If he starts commenting objectively on Jehan’s clothes, he’ll sound like an asshole. If he starts commenting subjectively on Jehan’s _appearance_ he’ll sound like a—

“It matches my bracelet though,” Jehan says and before Montparnasse can smirk at the suggestion that Jehan knows what ‘matching’ means, Jehan raises their right leg in the air in a dance-like pose and shows off their right ankle. There’s a braided leather bracelet with little bells tied around it.

So he wasn’t going crazy hearing bells whenever Jehan moved. Well that’s a relief. “Nice,” he says, shrugging off his coat.

“Would you mind taking your shoes off as well?” Jehan asks, slanting their head.

That explains why they are on socks themself, Montparnasse supposes.

“Baz has slippers for guests if you want,” they smile, pointing to a basket in a corner of the hallway.

Montparnasse shakes his head and carefully takes off his leather shoes. When he has put them aside Jehan happily leads him up a flight of stairs and Montparnasse is baffled. This place is huge.

“Did you say this house _belongs_ to Bahorel?” he asks incredulously.

“Well, he lives here,” Jehan says, a tad uncertain. “I think there used to be other people living here too before, but now there aren’t and… I guess it’s his? I mean, he redecorates it a lot.”

“Okay,” Montparnasse says. That sounds suspicious as fuck.

Jehan pushes open the door to a room that contains colourful cloths covering the walls, several sofa’s, pillows on the floor, Grantaire, and – rather puzzlingly – no Bahorel.

Jehan seems puzzled by that too. “Where’s Baz?” they ask.

“Kitchen,” Grantaire mutters, without moving. He’s staring up at the ceiling.

“Oh! I’ll go see if he needs a hand,” Jehan chimes, they flash Montparnasse a quick smile and dart out of the room again.

Montparnasse sits down in the only chair in the room small enough to hold only one person, which happens to be beside the sofa Grantaire is sprawled out on. The head of tangled curls moves in his direction when he sits down and Grantaire gives him a lazy grin.

“Fancy seeing you’re here,” he quips.

“Fancy you seeing me,” Montparnasse snarks, waving his hand up and down in front of Grantaire’s rather unfocussed eyes.

Grantaire blinks and grins. “You want some?” He offers and he pulls an already rolled joint out of the front pocket of his plaid shirt.

Montparnasse isn’t surprised at Grantaire. He _is_ surprised at the thought of him smoking in front of Jehan. But if this is an option, he’ll take it. He’d _really_ like something to take the edge off right now. “Sure,” he nods, digging around in his own pocket.

“Bahorel doesn’t mind,” Grantaire assures him, unasked. “Not as long as we share… Nice lighter.”

Montparnasse hums and lights up. He takes a slow drag and blows the smoke up towards the ceiling. “Where’s your boyfriend tonight?” he asks, handing the joint back. If Enjolras is going to show up  later he needs to know about it beforehand.

“Not my boyfriend,” Grantaire points out.

Considering everything he’s seen so far, that seems highly unlikely to Montparnasse. “You sure about that?” he scoffs.

“Pretty sure I’d know if I was someone’s boyfriend,” Grantaire says, narrowing his eyes a little.

“I’m not sure if you would,” Montparnasse drawls. “But point taken.”

Grantaire’s face relaxes again. “We’re together,” he says, taking his time with the joint before offering it to Montparnasse again. “Just not boyfriends.”

Montparnasse thoughtfully takes another drag. He’s heard variations on that before. None of them really suit his image of Grantaire and the blonde democracy lover though. “Ok… Is that a label thing or a relationship thing?”

Grantaire seems a little taken by surprise by that question. “Relationship I guess?” he answers. “Enj isn’t into the whole…relationships according to society thing.”

Montparnasse hums. “I really wouldn’t have pegged Blondie as someone who’s afraid of commitment.”

Grantaire laughs at that like it’s the joke of the century. “No,” he coughs. “It’s definitely not that. It’s…the other stuff. You know, coupley stuff.”

Montparnasse slants his head. Grantaire and Loud and Blonde behave like the coupliest couple to ever couple. All cuddles and…well, come to think of it, only cuddles. Oh. Right. He grimaces. All cuddles and commitment, nothing else. What a nightmare. “So he’s what…ace?” he asks, mostly to be nosy, but also because he genuinely wants to know.

Again Grantaire seems pleasantly surprised. (Montparnasse is not very impressed with the pleasant part.) “Ace spectrum, yeah,” Grantaire nods.

“Then,” Montparnasse says decidedly. “It _is_ a label thing instead of a relationship thing.”

Grantaire frowns a little.

“He’s fine with the relationship part, he just thinks the label comes with too many strings attached,” Montparnasse clarifies. There are always strings of course, whatever you choose to call something. Always. And they need to be cut before they get too tangled up.

“Huh,” Grantaire says. “I guess you’re right.”

“I usually am,” Montparnasse drawls, blowing smoke above their heads.

He doesn’t really _care_ about this stuff, but he notices. Gueulemer doesn’t seem all that interested in that side of life. He’s heard him and Claquesous talk about it once or twice. And Claquesous throws loads of different terms around. Gender clinic stuff. So does Fauntleroy. They’re the main reason Montparnasse caught the fact that Jehan also referred to themself as ‘they’ when he first met them.

There is noise approaching up the stairs and Jehan and Bahorel appear, carrying a variety of food and drinks.

“Dude, welcome!” Bahorel grins at him and Montparnasse nods.

“Baz?” Grantaire holds the joint out for Bahorel to take, but he shakes his head.

“Nah, just opened a beer.”

Jehan declines too. “Not tonight I think,” they smile, sitting down on the couch Grantaire is lying on. And that betrays so clearly that they might as well have answered yes if it had been another night, that Montparnasse spends a moment fighting some very confused images in his mind.

Grantaire mutters something lamenting about self-restraint and carefully extinguishes the joint to put it aside. “Sunday blessed Sunday,” he chuckles.

“Don’t put your Catholic guilt on me,” Bahorel grins, putting his bottle to his lips.

Grantaire makes an indignant noise and answers in a language that Montparnasse can’t understand. It sounds like Spanish, but he isn’t sure.

“Speaking of atrocities,” Bahorel says sweetly. “How was your recital?”

“It wasn’t a recital,” Jehan laughs. They are leaning against Grantaire’s drawn up legs, draping their arms across his knees as they look at Bahorel. A lock of their hair tumbles forward past their face and Montparnasse is beginning to think he’s made an error of judgement. He thought this would be harder sober. He was wrong. This would have been easier sober. Because right now his slightly muddled mind can’t sort the thoughts that he wants to have from the ones he doesn’t. He tries to focus on the conversation.

“I didn’t know you danced,” he says.

“Yeah!” Jehan says. “Friday was open house at our dance school.”

“We stole the show,” Grantaire grins.

So Grantaire and Jehan dance _together_. Montparnasse doesn’t want to think about that either.

“Stealing the show doesn’t exactly say anything about how _good_ you are,” Bahorel points out teasingly.

“I know,” Grantaire nods. “I’m very good with words aren’t I?”

“And modest,” Montparnasse snarks.

“Hm, I’m in excellent company then,” Grantaire chuckles. “Excluding Jehanemone of course,” he smiles, reaching out to give their head a stroke. “They are all good things at all times and we do not deserve them.”

Jehan blushes a happy pink and hugs Grantaire’s knees in response. Montparnasse turns his head away. Jehanemone… That’s Jehan’s name on snapchat as well. Maybe Grantaire was the one that came up with that. He doesn’t like it. Jehan isn’t a flower. If Jehan is anything but themself it’s a bird…

Neither Bahorel nor Grantaire seem to mind his silence. Come to think of it, Jehan doesn’t say a lot either. They listen to their friends talk, laughing and smiling and making a soft tinkling noise whenever they move their feet. Their feet, stuck in white socks so low it’s a wonder they haven’t lost them yet. With that braided leather bracelet with little bells tied around their right ankle… Montparnasse has to turn away to stop himself from staring. At those little bells and at Jehan. Jehan who’s wearing white. White with lace edges. And not a single mismatched colour to spoil it. Jehan—

There’s a gentle sound of hollow wood and suddenly there’s music. Montparnasse raises his head, feeling like he drifted off for a moment. Grantaire has a guitar. He blinks. Where did Grantaire get a guitar? Does Bahorel play the guitar?

“Yeah…play something R,” Bahorel drawls, stretching out even longer on the floor. Montparnasse must have gotten lost in his own head longer than he thought, because he’s sure Bahorel wasn’t lying on the floor before.

Grantaire plucks the strings idly, his eyes half closed. “I don’t entertain on my own,” he says. “I lack the exhibitionist soul.”

“Jehan,” Bahorel speaks up again. “Sing something so Grantaire’s shy fucking soul will play us a damn song.”

Montparnasse forgets to breathe. _Jehan sings?_

“You sing,” Jehan smiles, pushing at Bahorel’s knee with their bare foot. Where did their socks go?

“If Bahorel sings, I leave,” Grantaire announces.

Montparnasse snorts with vague amusement and closes his eyes again, relaxing again now the threat is past.

Grantaire keeps plucking the strings, but there seems a little more method to the rhythm this time. Suddenly there’s chords and Montparnasse’s stupid foggy head is still trying to figure out how notes became chords when—

 _“If you'll be my star_  
_I'll be your sky_  
_You can hide underneath me and come out at night…”_

Jehan’s voice is sweet and lovely, because of course it is. Yes, Montparnasse has heard them recite poetry, but this is not the same. This is _so_ much worse.

 _“When I turn jet black_  
_And you show off your light_  
_I live to let you shine_  
_I live to let you shine…”_

The words are all wrong. Jehan has never worn a scrap of black. Half of Montparnasse wants to argue and the other half wants to shut up and listen and all of him raises his head to open his eyes and he should not have done that.

Jehan is swaying, almost dancing, next to Grantaire who sits hunched over the guitar, eyes still half closed. Bahorel is now stretched out on the floor like a starfish, grinning at the ceiling. Jehan’s feet are moving and the bells on their ankle are making the softest possible sounds as they catch the light and Montparnasse is lost, staring.

 _“But you can skyrocket away from me_  
_And never come back if you find another galaxy_  
_Far from here with more room to fly_  
_Just leave me your stardust to remember you by…”_

Something is burning at the back of Montparnasse’s throat. He can’t— Why should the darkened sky be satisfied with stardust? It didn’t even touch the star. The least the star can do is stay…

Jehan’s words start to blur together until he can only hear the sound, the warmth, the lovely rise and fall of their voice. Every now and again a sentence bleeds through the melody and they are so sweet and so painful.

_“I live to make you free…  
I live to make you free…”_

Those are words describing someone selfless and generous. Someone capable of seeing something beautiful and not wanting it with their whole soul to never ever let it go again. Someone utterly unlike Montparnasse. Those are awful, mocking words and it is unfair that they are the most beautiful thing he has ever heard. Terribly, horribly unfair.

_“Just leave me your stardust to remember you by…  
Stardust…to remember you by…”_

Jehan’s voice lingers even longer than the last note of the guitar. They stop swaying and turning and Montparnasse is still staring. Suddenly their hazel eyes look straight into his and they smile. Montparnasse can feel the starlight searing through him. He smiles back. It’s an empty excuse for a smile. Because he’s can’t let the star get away. But he’s can’t let it break apart into stardust either.

He can’t do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Boats and Birds part is one of the first Jehanparnasse scenes I ever posted on tumblr and now it is finally in its proper place <3


	9. Montparnasse doesn’t lie to himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets the trophy for ‘number of anxious rewrites’. Most sincere thanks to Amanda, who listened to me whine and of course to my sister, who had to reread this almost as many times as I rewrote it.
> 
> Content warning: feels, all of them, in rapid succession.

Montparnasse wishes he had never met Jehan. He wishes he didn’t have the rose and the poem hidden away in his apartment. He wishes they’d stop texting him. He wishes he wouldn’t feel like such an asshole for not replying. He wishes Éponine would stop asking why he’s being weird. He wishes—

“Man, the fuck is up with you?”

Whenever it was that Claquesous came in, Montparnasse didn’t hear him do it. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment?” he retorts irritably.

“Your door was unlocked,” Claquesous snarks. “And I’ve been waiting for _ages,_ you said you’d come right down.”

Right, they were going to the market to buy fabrics.

Claquesous is looking at him with a frown on his face. “…we don’t have to go,” he says, slowly.

Montparnasse turns around. He can deal with Éponine, but not Claquesous as well. “No, let’s go,” he says. “But I am fed up with _everything_. If we don’t find a decent brocade I might murder someone.”

Claquesous looks relieved. “Get your ass ready then,” he orders. “We’re late.”

♦

Buying fabrics helps. Brocade and silk always help. So does idly making fun of Babet after Claquesous told him that _apparently_ Violet is coming to see the Shakespeare thing.

“I can’t stand you can start right away,” Claquesous complains. His hands are itching just as much as Montparnasse’s to make a start with his new project, but he has a meeting. Something important and music related. He’s not nervous about it though, rather annoyed.

“Serves you right for having a career,” Montparnasse smirks.

Claquesous makes a face and pulls the door of his apartment shut again. “Don’t waste your brocade.”

“Don’t be late to your meeting.”

Claquesous grunts resentfully and hurries down the stairs while Montparnasse goes up. He puts water on for coffee and clears the table while he’s waiting. Carefully he takes out the dark red brocade and runs his fingers over the patterns. He’s going to make something beautiful with this. Beautiful and all his, because he made it himself. Just when he spreads the fabric across the table, the bell rings downstairs. Three times, that means it’s for him. Montparnasse walks to the door, pulling out his phone with a frown on his face. There’s no message from Éponine though. No messages at all in fact. Did one of his idiot friends lock himself out? If it’s Claquesous back already because he forgot something, he’s definitely going to miss that meeting.

Montparnasse pulls open the front door with a condescending smirk. “Did you—” He shuts his mouth.

Jehan is standing on the doorstep with a cautious, but determined smile on their face. “Hi,” they say softly.

Montparnasse stares at them and tries frantically to find something appropriate to say. This is the _worst_ thing that could have happened right now and he’s still so goddamn happy to see them that he can hardly resist the urge to smile.

“I was wondering if maybe something had happened,” Jehan begins hesitantly. “You weren’t responding and…Feuilly said he hadn’t heard from you either and I thought…” They give him a questioning look. “Is everything alright?”

Is everything alright. The nearly smiled smile turns into a grimace. Jehan actually came all the way over here to ask him if he was okay. How can they possibly be like this? Why must they make this so fucking hard?

“I know you work a lot,” Jehan says. “But I remembered you had Sunday’s free and I think you mentioned once that your friends often work weekends, so I wondered- If you didn’t want to be alone…” They smile hesitantly. “I brought games and stuff. And movies, just in case.”

For fuck’s sake. “I’m fine,” Montparnasse says and his voice comes out gruff and distant. “You didn’t need to come all the way over here.”

“Oh.” Jehan looks disappointed. But that’s the worst of it. They only look disappointed. Disappointed and concerned. There’s not a shred of resentment on their face and the look in their eyes is so soft when they finally tell him:“You really don’t have to hang out with me if you don’t want to, Parnasse. I just wanted to check if you needed cheering up.”

Montparnasse swallows. He’s such a jerk. Jehan is the sweetest person he has ever met and he’s making them feel bad about it. Never mind what _he_ wants, Jehan is trying to be his friend. Pushing them away because he wants more but doesn’t know how to deal with that makes no damn sense, not anymore. Not while Jehan is standing right in front of him with that concerned look and that terrible yellow cardigan.

“Jehan—” he begins uncertainly and he looks away because they keep _looking_ at him. “I’m not—” He rubs his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. Why does it feel like whatever he chooses to say or do he’ll be screwed either way? He looks up and meets Jehan’s eyes. He’d rather burn than drown. “Will you come in?”

Jehan’s face lights up like the sky at dawn and Montparnasse steps aside to let them past. He doesn’t talk as he follows them up the stairs, but with every step he feels a little better. That’s the messed up part. Jehan turns his thoughts into a mess and his feelings into a knot and still being around them helps.

“Oh!” Jehan exclaims as soon as they step into the living room. “You were sewing?”

“Just looking,” Montparnasse says. “The fabric’s new.”

“It’s beautiful,” Jehan says and they look at him with bright eyes. “May I?”

He gives a vague nod with his head – what else is he supposed to do? – and watches how Jehan lets their bag slide to the floor and carefully runs their fingers over the shimmering fabric. Just like he had done himself.

“Is this for the waistcoat you wanted to make?” Jehan ask, looking up eagerly.

And of course they remember every damn thing he tells them. “Yes,” Montparnasse says and he smiles. Fuck it all. Fuck his stupid goddamn mind and feelings. “You want tea?” he asks.

“I’d love some,” Jehan smiles. They leave the fabric be and follow him to the kitchen, asking about his morning, talking about their shift at the museum yesterday. They don’t say anything about being worried and they don’t bring up his radio silence again, but in everything they say there is a gentle warmth that makes Montparnasse want to apologise. For everything. He doesn’t though. Instead he makes Jehan tea, pours himself a cup of coffee with enough sugar and cream to make Jehan give him a surprised look and says: “There’s one thing I want to know.”

“Yes?” Jehan says. Most of the cautious edge to their behaviour is gone now and they’re beginning to simply look happy to be here.

Happy to be with him. Montparnasse turns that thought over in his mind for a moment and draws up an eyebrow. “You said you brought games. What on earth gave you the idea I play board games.”

“You haven’t even seen them yet,” Jehan huffs.

Montparnasse sits down on the couch and shakes his head. “I play cards, not games.”

“Oh,” Jehan hums and there’s suddenly a smile on their lips that looks remarkably like a smirk. “Just like you don’t like poetry.” They grab their bag and sit down next to him. “I’m not falling for that again. And besides, they happen to _be_ card games.”

Now all Jehan’s shyness has gone and that was all Montparnasse wanted. He sits back with a sceptical expression while Jehan pulls a box out of their bag and begins to spread large glossy cards out on the coffee table. Their explanation of the game is a bit confused and Montparnasse doesn’t understand much of it. Jehan’s priority seems to be to get him to admit that the cards are pretty though and he graciously agrees: “Weird as hell, but quite pretty, yes.”

“That’s the whole _point_ ,” Jehan protests and to Montparnasse’s amusement they defend the game for another three minutes before deciding it’s not so good to play with two people after all and putting it away again. It’s exactly the sort of game Montparnasse would have guessed Jehan to like, if he had ever bothered to think about such a thing that is. All wild imagination and knowing who you’re playing with.

The next game that emerges from their quilted bag is wildly different, however.

“Every card has a story you see,” Jehan says, showing him a card with an ambiguous picture on the front. “A hint on the front and a story on the back. And you have ask questions to guess how the person died.”

Montparnasse looks at the little black box and represses a smirk. “You brought me a riddle game about death,” he says. “Because – and I think I remember this right – you thought I needed cheering up.” The funniest part of this to Montparnasse is that he’s not even surprised, not anymore. Jehan likes some messed up things. And they’re wonderful.

“You know what, Jehan,” he grins, taking one of the cards. “That’s downright morbid.” And before Jehan can either defend themself or get shy again he adds: “Let’s play.”

♦

Guessing murders and accidental deaths should not be this funny. It should definitely not make someone as sweet looking as Jehan laugh as much as it does. A stack of cards later they are both lounging on the couch with their shoes off and Jehan is waxing lyrically about crimes of passion. Montparnasse chuckles and shakes his head.

“You hungry?” he asks when Jehan sinks into another one of their pensive silences.

“Kinda,” Jehan nods. Their face lights up. “Éponine says you’re a really good cook.”

“Éponine is a snitch,” Montparnasse hums, but he can’t quite hide his grin. He hasn’t got a fully stocked fridge right now and vegetarian meals aren’t exactly his speciality, but there’s enough to make something suitable.

“Can I help?” Jehan offers when Montparnasse gets up.

“I don’t know,” he teases. “What do you suggest?”

“My mother’s a caterer,” Jehan points out. “I can cook.”

Montparnasse snorts. If they’re going to bring up _parents_ as proof of accomplishments.

“Okay, so I’m not a _great_ cook,” Jehan grins. “I can sous-chef for you though. Or…” Their eyes twinkle. “I could read to you while you cook?”

“Read what?” Montparnasse asks, but to be honest he couldn’t care less. If he could turn off the entire world and just listen to Jehan recite for the rest of his life, he would.

Jehan opens their bag again and pulls out a book. They hold it up to him so he can read the cover. The Short Stories of Oscar Wilde.

“You said books were too long,” Jehan says with a teasing tone. “But Dorian Gray is actually his longest work.” They smile. “I also brought the Canterville Ghost, but I’d really like to read the Nightingale and the Rose to you.”

Montparnasse smiles. Whatever they want. “Go on then,” he says. “I’ll cook, you’ll read.”

As it happened cooking did not progress very much with Jehan’s voice dwelling sweetly on every description and filling with emotion the nearer they came to the ending. When the story was finished, dinner was not and Montparnasse argued with Jehan while standing over the stove.

“You want me to pity the nightingale,” he says stubbornly, when dinner finally _is_ finished. “But I won’t.”

“No!” Jehan protests. “I didn’t say that. Not pity. Never.” They shake their head. “Not in exchange for a sacrifice like that.”

“They died for nothing,” Montparnasse says, plating up the food.

“They died for love,” Jehan says, taking the plate he offers them. “And not even their own, but for the _existence_ of Love, selflessly.”

“And what did it get them,” Montparnasse asks. He looks at Jehan soberly. They are just like the nightingale. A little bird full of bright feelings. And he’s— He doesn’t know what he is right now.

“That doesn’t matter,” Jehan says stoutly. “They chose to do it for Love and they did brilliantly.”

Montparnasse sighs. “I may need some wine with that,” he says heavily and to his surprise Jehan says:

“No you don’t, you need another story.”

So after they’ve eaten Jehan reads him another. This one is sweeter, but still so sad that it makes Jehan’s eyes shine with nearly cried tears and Montparnasse nearly begs them to stop reading. He doesn’t think he’d be able to bear to see Jehan crying.

“Let me finish,” Jehan hums softly and when they’ve reached the end they are smiling again. Still, when they blink there’s a tear on their cheek.

Montparnasse doesn’t even stop to think before reaching out and wiping it away.

Jehan smiles, they don’t blush or fluster, they just smile. “Will you read me your favourite part of Dorian Gray?” they ask.

“I don’t remember enough of it to find it,” Montparnasse lies.

“I can bepatient,” Jehan smiles.

He gives in, because that’s all he seems to be doing these days, and he reads to Jehan while they stretch out on his couch while he sits, nearly lying against him. They listen, sometimes with their eyes closed and when he puts the book down they murmur something about the timbre of his voice and ask him to explain what he likes about the passage he picked. Montparnasse tries to answer and they talk. They talk and talk and he doesn’t grow tired of it. He’ll never grow tired of it.

♦

A drowsy silence has settled over the two of them when Jehan suddenly raises their head and asks: “What time is it?”

Montparnasse glances at the watch he took off and laid aside hours ago. “Nearly six in the morning,” he says with a soft groan.

“ _Oh_ ,” Jehan gasps and they scramble upright.

Montparnasse is sorry for it, but he doesn’t protest. He’s kept them for an entire night. An entire night of talking and reading and being silent together. Montparnasse has never done anything like this before, but he’s very sure now that this is something he’s not willing to give up. No, he’ll try to keep this. He doesn’t know how and whenever he looks at the slope of Jehan’s neck or the curve of their lips he questions his sanity, but he’s going to try.

Instead of gathering their things like Montparnasse expects them to, Jehan runs to the dark window and peeks outside. “It’s nearly sunrise!” they say. “Which way is east?”

“East?” Montparnasse echoes confusedly, getting to his feet with a tired lack of coordination.

“Does the morning sun shine into your bedroom or your living room?” Jehan asks.

Montparnasse slants his head. “My bedroom,” he answers. “Wakes me up if I forget to close the curtains. What’s this sudden interest in my bedroom?”

Jehan makes a scoffing sound and grabs Montparnasse’s hand. Before he can even make another snarky joke he’s being pulled into his own bedroom, where Jehan throws open the curtain and nearly sits down on Montparnasse’s bed, before stopping themself. They glance at Montparnasse who, admittedly, is slightly rattled. And for once he feels justified.

“Can I sit on your bed?” Jehan asks.

“That depends what you’re planning on doing there,” Montparnasse says. Jehan is used to him teasing by now, so that makes it by far the safest response.

“I’m just asking,” Jehan rolls their eyes and they sit down.

Montparnasse sits down beside them, because he’s too tired to argue with the part of his brain that told him that was a good idea. It’s _his_ bed after all.

“I can see the sunrise from my kitchen,” Jehan tells him. “But I usually miss it.”

“I should hope so,” Montparnasse yawns. He used to be able to stay awake nights on end, not anymore. He’s so drowsy that his eyes have trouble focussing at times.

Jehan seems to have a similar problem. Their hazel eyes go misty as they stare outside at the gradually changing horizon. One by one, colours begin to show. Pinks and scarlets fading to purples and blue. The tufts of cloud that were barely visible before, suddenly turn orange and a heartbeat later the first fiery sliver of pure sunlight splits the skyline.

Montparnasse looks, aware only of the colours in the sky and Jehan’s gentle breathing right beside him and then suddenly Jehan’s voice comes trickling softly through the warm haze of his mind.

 _“Day's sweetest moments are at dawn;_  
_Refreshed by his long sleep, the Light_  
 _Kisses the languid lips of Night,_  
 _Ere she can rise and hasten on._  
 _All glowing from his dreamless rest_  
 _He holds her closely to his breast,_  
 _Warm lip to lip and limb to limb,_  
 _Until she dies for love of him.”_

The words dance around in Montparnasse’s head long after Jehan has stopped talking. The sun is rising and is so bright with golden fire that they cannot look at it anymore. Instead they both stare at the wisps of clouds scattered at the edges of the sky, that are turning slowly from pink to white.

“Recite something in German for me?” Jehan asks. Their voice is gentle and dreamy. Not a bit demanding, not even a little shy. It’s just an honest desire, simply worded.

And Montparnasse complies, because even though this is nothing like him, it fits. Staying up all night talking, endless texts, reciting poetry. All this…friendship dressed in Romance. It belongs to Jehan. That it does not and never has belonged to Montparnasse doesn’t matter. He’s with Jehan and while he’s with them he can do this.

So Montparnasse recites, slowly, dragging the words up from his memory:

_“Ich möchte, wann ich sterbe, wie die lichten…”_

He knows Jehan is no longer looking at the sky. He can feel their eyes on him, but he does not look back. Because he can sit here and watch the sunrise with them, he can listen to their poetry and even give something back to them. But he does not trust himself to look into their eyes right now. Not without doing something stupid. Like sliding his hand into their hair and pulling them towards him to mutter the words right next to their ear. Because if does that— If he does that he will make Jehan think they want what he wants. They won’t stop him and he’ll spoil everything. Montparnasse doesn’t want this spoilt.

With a last lingering sentence he finishes the poem and lets the silence stretch on.

“What does ‘heimgegangen’ mean?” Jehan asks after what seems like an eternity.

Montparnasse turns towards them. Smiling a little at the fact that Jehan’s face could be either sleepy or dreamy right now, but that he really isn’t able to tell the difference. “Passed away,” he answers. “Or gone home…it’s the same thing in this case.”

“Isn’t it always?” Jehan asks, looking up into Montparnasse’s face, but it doesn’t sound like a question that wants an answer.

Montparnasse shrugs and he’s ready to shrug it all away. The poetry, the sunrise, the past night. Not for forever, because he wants this again, but for now. Because it might be too much for him, or too much for Jehan. He doesn’t want that. And he would have slid off the bed and talked of breakfast, except he’s still looking at Jehan and they are still looking at him and then suddenly their lips are on his.

His eyes open wide as Jehan’s eyes fall shut and Montparnasse can feel his entire body flood with the sudden absence of tiredness.

He doesn’t move and Jehan pulls away, just a little. “Oh…” they say, softly, as if they’re genuinely surprised. “I…I should have asked.”

“Little late now,” Montparnasse breathes and Jehan laughs so sweetly that Montparnasse gives up. Because the adrenaline that chased the fatigue away is making him dizzy now and he can _nearly_ taste Jehan on his own lips, but not quite.

The next moment his hand is in Jehan’s hair and their mouths are opening against each other as they wrap their arms around his neck and Montparnasse stops thinking. Or he tries to. Because he wants this so badly. He wants this more than anything he’s ever wanted and Jehan is holding on to him like they want him to hold them tighter so he does and who _cares_ if he doesn’t have a clue how to keep this. Who cares, as long as he can have it now.

Jehan makes a sound between an appreciative sigh and a moan and lets themself fall back onto the bed. Montparnasse follows, leaning over them eagerly. He presses a kiss on the edge of their jaw and suddenly their fingers tangle into his hair, pulling him closer. Montparnasse opens his mouth against the crook of their neck and tastes their skin. His teeth have barely touched them, but Jehan’s breath hitches eagerly in their throat and they mutter something Montparnasse can’t quite understand.

But it doesn’t matter, hearing their voice is enough. It drags him out of his haze. With an unpleasant jolt and a cold shiver on his flushed skin. Because he can’t do this. Not with Jehan. This is what he always does and it always ends the same.

He pulls back and stares at Jehan, sprawled out underneath him, looking so real and so impossibly gorgeous at the same time. Bathed in early morning sunshine, face flooded with joyful eagerness. Montparnasse swallows.

“What’s wrong?” Jehan asks softly, looking up at him uncertainly. They’re still a little breathless and their cheeks and lips are pink, but their eyes are concerned.

“I…” Montparnasse starts, but doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. He should sit up, turn away, but—

“We don’t have to…” Jehan says gently.

Montparnasse lets out a breath that is nearly a curse. Instead of drawing back he rolls off Jehan and lets himself fall flat onto his back beside them. This is a fucked up joke. “I don’t do this…” he breathes, his voice barely audible.

“I’m sorry…” Jehan says, taken aback, and Montparnasse winces.

 _They’re_ sorry. He sits up, clawing a hand through his hair. It does nothing to dispel the feeling of their fingers there.

“If this is too fast,” Jehan begins, slowly sitting up as well and turning a little to look at him.

Montparnasse has to swallow the acidic laugh jolting in his insides. Too fast. All the things he’s imagined doing with Jehan and _to_ Jehan ever since he first laid eyes on them—

“Jehan,” he begins, but when he lifts up his eyes he looks straight into their face and the gentle look of patient concern is almost unbearable.

“We really don’t have to do this,” Jehan says and their voice is full of warmth and openness and understanding, but at the very edge of it is something like regret. “I understand if—”

“You don’t,” Montparnasse says tensely. Jehan is still close, close enough for him to feel their warmth. “You really don’t,” he says, struggling to keep his voice level. “What do you want from me Jehan?” He lets his grimace take over his face. “I thought you wanted to be friends.”

“We _are_ friends,” Jehan answers openly.

“We’re friends…” Montparnasse breathes. Breathing is hard right now.

“Did you think…” they mumble. “Did you think that because I said I wanted to be friends, I didn’t— I didn’t want this?”

Montparnasse gives them a painful smile. “What is ‘this’ exactly?”

Jehan turns red. “I don’t—” They give him a distressed look. “You kissed back.”

“Yes,” he says heavily. “Because there was literally nothing else I’d rather do.”

Jehan looks at him helplessly and Montparnasse feels a now desperate laugh bubbling up in his ribcage. He should have gone to make breakfast.

“Then why—” Jehan struggles. “Why are you…” Their tone is not accusatory, it’s confused and very nearly anxious.

Montparnasse looks away. “I don’t know what it is you want, Jehan, but I’m probably not the best person to get it from.” There, he’s said it. He has managed to swallowed the laugh and it’s freezing him from the inside out. That’s good. He’s going to need that coldness to fake indifference when Jehan leaves.

Except they don’t leave. They sit beside him, all gentle softness and say: “I know you don’t usually…date people.”

“Not ‘usually’, _never_ ,” Montparnasse grunts and he doesn’t even ask how they know. Maybe Éponine told them, maybe Feuilly did. They tried to tell him off, so they probably tried to warn Jehan. And they were bloody right.

“Is that because you don’t want to or…” Jehan sounds hesitant, like they’re afraid they’re saying the wrong thing.

They are, but only because there is nothing right now they could say to Montparnasse that he could count as the right thing. He gives them a blank look. “Maybe you haven’t noticed,” he deadpans. “But I don’t exactly _like_ a whole lot of people.”

“You like me…” Jehan says softly and the fact that it’s almost a question makes something panic deep in Montparnasse’s stomach.

“ _Yes_ ,” he rasps, looking anywhere but Jehan’s face. “And that’s exactly why I tried not to—” He cuts himself off and steadies his voice. “If we do...this—” He gestures between them. “—it’ll just be what I always do. And normally that is _fine_. Because it’s exactly what I want. And I’m good at finding people who want the same thing. But—” He has to physically force the words out of his mouth. “That isn’t good enough right now.” He looks up and meets Jehan’s eyes. “Not with you.”

Jehan is looking at him. Quietly, almost thoughtfully, and Montparnasse waits, feeling numb, eyes fixed mindlessly on one corner of his bed

“Why not with me?” they ask.

Against his better judgement he looks up into their eyes again. “Because you’re—” He shakes his head. What is he supposed to say? That Jehan makes him feel different? That for the first time in his life he wants something, _really_ wants something, that he _doesn’t_ want to take? “Because you don’t want that,” he says finally. “Trust me.”

Jehan looks at him for a moment and then, very slowly they lean towards him. They’re looking into his eyes and Montparnasse looks back, trying to memorise every spec of light hidden in the hazel now he still has the chance. Then, very gently, as if they’re afraid Montparnasse will pull away from them, Jehan kisses him again. Montparnasse keeps breathing, because breathing means he is completely wrapped in the smell of Jehan, but his eyes close. Jehan’s hands come to rest on either side of his face and their lips move against his, almost as if they are smiling. Suddenly Montparnasse feels the loosely woven fabric of Jehan’s cardigan and only then does he realise he put his hands on their waist. For a moment Jehan lingers and then they’re pulling away with a silent sigh.

Montparnasse opens his eyes and looks straight into theirs.

“Did that feel like what you always do?” Jehan asks earnestly.

Of course it didn’t. How could it? It’s Jehan. “No…” he manages to force past his lips.

“Then why can’t we?” Jehan says, painfully hesitant. “If we both want to…”

Montparnasse stares at their gentle expression in silence until they bite their lip and nod uncertainly.

“Okay,” they mutter. Slowly they draw away from him and slide off the bed. They lift their head and smile at him. “I don’t mind if you don’t want to date me, Parnasse,” they say. “We don’t have to do any of this. Just because I want to be with you—”

They’ve hardly even begun to turn away but suddenly Montparnasse’s hand moves on its own accord and he catches Jehan by their sleeve. He _doesn’t_ want them to leave. Anything but that. But he lets go immediately, because he’s not making them stay either. Jehan doesn’t leave though. They stay right where they are. And this is not him convincing them. Or tricking them. This is—

“…you want to be with me.”

“I—” Jehan falters. “I thought...” They squirm a little under Montparnasse’s stare and mutter, almost defensively: “You lied about not liking poetry to make me come back to your store.”

“I didn’t know you’d come back,” Montparnasse contradicts. Is that true? Didn’t he?

They stare at each other for a moment.

“Well, maybe I was hoping you’d ask me out,” Jehan says. Their face is red again, but their voice is defiant. There’s a flash of uncertainty in their eyes. “I thought you’d be the kind of person to ask…”

Montparnasse pictures Jehan strolling into his store holding one of their beautifully written poems and swallows. “I ask people for things,” he says. “But not dates.”

Jehan slants their head. “Should I have asked you then?”

Montparnasse’s brain is unable to process that just now. He doesn’t even try to answer, he just looks at Jehan and thinks of every hug, every smile, every poem, every blush… It’s not the same is it. Asking someone out the first time you see them or asking them out when you’re already friends. This is asking something more. _‘I want to be with you.’_

“Yes,” Montparnasse says. He can’t stop himself and he doesn’t want to. “Ask me.”

There’s a burst of hesitant joy on Jehan’s face, but they don’t speak. They look at him. “Are you—”

“Ask me.” _Please_.

“Montparnasse,” Jehan says, eyes fixed softly on his and colour still heightened on their cheeks. “Will you go out with me?”

“Yes,” he says and Jehan smiles so bright the morning sun might as well have faded. They grab his hands and say something about dating and labels and being exclusive and all Montparnasse can think to do is nod and pull them closer. Because something somehow fell into place just now and this is exactly what he’s wanted since the first time he heard Jehan speak. He’s grinning without meaning to, but he does nothing to stop it.

Montparnasse is sitting on the edge of the bed now and Jehan is standing right in front of him, their legs nearly touching his knees. They look down on him with the happiest blush he’s ever seen on their face. “Will you kiss me?” they ask.

That never, ever has to be a question.

“How many times do you want me to say yes to you?” Montparnasse says, the grin still on his face.

Jehan laughs and before they can actually answer Montparnasse catches them by the front of their cardigan and pulls them into a kiss.

Jehan’s arms wrap around his neck and the mattress moves when they plant their knees into it, straddling Montparnasse’s lap. They taste sweeter now than they did before. How exactly Montparnasse can’t quite put his finger on, but his fingers are busy playing with Jehan’s hair anyway. Jehan puts more of their weight on him and Montparnasse pulls them even closer. Even with his eyes closed the sun is pouring through. He kisses Jehan deeper and they press eagerly against him until they break apart with a gasp.

“You know,” they pant, shrugging off their cardigan before sliding their hands into Montparnasse’s hair. “I dreamt of you the night after we met, but I didn’t tell anyone about you. Not at first. I thought…I thought you were a once in a lifetime only.”

Montparnasse grins. And he thought they were a fairy tale. “I did tell people about you,” he says.

“You did?” Jehan says with a smile in their eyes.

“I told them I helped a nymph steal a lost treasure,” Montparnasse says, reaching up to brush a lock of hair out of Jehan’s face.

They smile delightedly and lean in to kiss him again. “Is that what you thought I was,” they hum against his lips. “A nymph?”

“The first time,” Montparnasse breathes. Every single touch they give him makes him ache for more. Jehan is softer, warmer, sweeter than any of the visions his mind spun for him in his hours of frustration. And he’s not taking anything, Jehan is giving this to him.

“What would you call me now then?” Jehan coaxes, drawing back a little so they can look at him properly.

Montparnasse looks up at them and he knows what he wants to call them. It doesn’t sound right in French tough, it sounds better in his mother tongue. His father’s tongue, whatever. Jehan _is_ like a nymph, but they’re more like a bird. A fair little bird, light and quick. Well, they always did like his German…

He brings a hand up to their face and softly touches their cheek. “Vögelchen,” he hums. “Little bird… That’s what I’d call you.”

Jehan mouths the word silently, looking pleased. “I like that,” they say, smiling softly. “No one’s ever called me anything like that before.”

Montparnasse kisses them again. Good. He likes the idea of being the first one. The only one.

Jehan shifts on his lap and they wrap their legs firmly around his waist. Montparnasse grins into the kiss and they pull away, eyes twinkling.

“What?” they ask.

“Nothing,” he grins. Whatever nagging thoughts there were in the back of his mind are being washed away by the rampant feeling of happiness making its way through his entire being. “You’re full of surprises, that’s all.” They always were. That’s the thing about Jehan.

Jehan hums happily and presses three short, soft kisses on his lips. They don’t pull away fully, but lean their forehead against his, eyes still closed, and murmur: “I feel braver with you than I do with _anyone_ else.”

Montparnasse has no response to that, but it makes him inexplicably, _indescribably_ happy. He presses a kiss on Jehan’s cheek. They sigh and lean their head to the side. Montparnasse can take a hint. He kisses down their neck, slowly, carefully, savouring every moment. What was it he thought he wanted again? What he’s always wanted? To be surrounded by beautiful things? Jehan is better than beautiful. And why shouldn’t he have them? If they want him too. It doesn’t matter that he’s never wanted anything like this before. He wants it now. He wants them. And he’s willing to give Jehan whatever _they_ want to keep them. Everything he’s capable of giving…

“Parnasse,” Jehan breathes and his thoughts scatter. Doubt doesn’t stand a chance against a voice like that.

“Yes, vögelchen?” he murmurs against their skin.

Jehan’s skin glows with heat and Montparnasse can feel rather than see that they’re blushing again. One of their hands is reaching towards the small of his back, the fingers of the other are tangled eagerly into his hair. “Do that thing with your teeth again?”

It takes Montparnasse exactly one second to comply.

Jehan stifles a moan, throwing their weight forward against Montparnasse and he lets himself fall back onto the bed, pulling them with him.

Because this isn’t complicated. It’s the most uncomplicated and wonderful thing in the entire world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happily ever after, The End!
> 
> (Except I wouldn’t suffer through nine chapters of slow burn to end it here, never. I _really_ hope this hit the right notes for you, it was a long time coming  <3)
> 
> -The poem Jehan recites is by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.  
> -The German poem Parnasse recites is: [Malerei of Death by Nikolaus Lenau](https://mlhbtok.wordpress.com/2013/01/20/poetry-in-translation/) (warning, it’s Not Cheerful).  
> -The Nightingale and the Rose, by Oscar Wilde can be [read here.](http://www.wilde-online.info/the-nightingale-and-the-rose.html)  
> -The games Jehan brought are Dixit and Black Stories, two of my personal favourites.


	10. Montparnasse doesn’t talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: mention of bad home life/parents.

Montparnasse isn’t sure when, but at some point they must have fallen asleep, because he wakes up around noon with a sleeping Jehan curled up beside him. They’re half-dressed and sleep-rumpled, just like he is, and Montparnasse needs a moment to fully take in how incredibly good he feels. Watching them sleep beside him all the snarling feelings he felt pressing on his shoulders before are gone. He’s always been a decisive person. Being conflicted hadn’t agreed with him at all. Well, Jehan had solved that particular problem for him.

He resists the urge to touch their hair and press a kiss on their freckled cheek. Instead he silently slides out of bed, careful not to wake them.

His trousers are lying on the floor by the bed and he fishes his lighter out of one of the pockets. As quietly as he can Montparnasse pries open the window and sits down on the windowsill, lighting up a cigarette.

He watches Jehan sleep with a vague smile around his lips and allows himself to be amused at how completely unwilling he is to leave the room. He doesn’t even want to go and make coffee. Montparnasse wants this to last. He hasn’t felt this good in an incredibly long time. He’s going to fight like hell to keep this, for as long as it is given to him.

Because this can’t last. Of course it can’t.

He’s managed almost a year now without waking up with a distinct lack of memories of the preceding night. He’s lied his way into a job that pays what other people like to call honest money. He’s cheated his way out of the life he willingly walked into many years ago. He’s done all that. But this isn’t like that. This is something new entirely. Which means it has to be temporary. Beautiful and rare and temporary.

Montparnasse blows the smoke out of the window and smiles. He lies to other people, not to himself. The fact that this is temporary doesn’t make it any less amazing. Jehan wants to be with him, so he’ll be with them for as long as this damn world will let him.

And if he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it properly.

♦♦♦

Montparnasse grins down at the message on his phone and waits.

**Parnasse** : I’m calling in your debt

Jehan has finally left for their home, but Montparnasse can still feel their lips on his cheek. With uncharacteristic patience he waits for Éponine to check her phone. He grins at the brocade still spread out on the table. Maybe he’ll start on that pattern while he waits, yesterday didn’t turn out very productive in that quarter after all. His phone pings.

**Ponine** : What? Now?

He grins.

**Parnasse** : Yes now

**Ponine** : Dude

**Ponine** : It’s monday, it couldn’t be yesterday?

**Parnasse** : No

**Ponine** : * sigh *

**Ponine** : Alright where do I go

**Parnasse** : My place

**Ponine** : We’re staying in?

**Parnasse** : Yes

**Ponine** : That’s a relief. Okay see you in twenty

By the time she arrives Montparnasse has put his fabric and patterns away. He’s not in the mood for sewing.

“What happened?” Éponine asks as soon as he opens the door for her.

“Evening to you too,” he smirks, walking back up the stairs.

Éponine follows him and says suspiciously: “What’s going on?”

Montparnasse doesn’t answer. He waits until she’s standing impatiently in his living room before he turns to her and says: “Like I said, I’m calling in your debt.”

“For _what_ ,” Éponine demands.

“I’m dating Jehan,” Montparnasse replies. He manages to keep his voice neutral, but his expression is smug. Not just because of Jehan, but also because Éponine freezes in place and stares at him with exactly as much shock as he had expected.

“Okay…” she says and she sounds so cautious that Montparnasse’s face clouds over.

Alright, so she’s going to be difficult about this. Well, she can be as difficult as she likes, it’s not going to change a damn thing. He looks at her silently.

“And when you say dating,” she begins slowly. “You mean you’re with them and no one else?”

Montparnasse pulls a face. “Are we going to have a talk on semantics now?” he snarks.

Éponine gives him a look that is way too serious.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says impatiently. “That’s what I mean.”

She presses her lips together and nods slowly. “Okay,” she repeats, in a slightly less guarded tone now. “So when you say dating—”

Montparnasse is just about ready to snarl at her.

“—you mean that you’re dating them _more_ than you already were before?”

Montparnasse meets her eyes and sees the laugh trembling behind them. “Fuck you,” he grunts.

Éponine’s suspicion turns to laughter with a single shake of her head. He turns away from her, but she follows him and tries to wrap her arms around his shoulders. “You’re so full of shit, Parnasse,” she laughs. “So full of shit. ‘It’s not a date Éponine, what part about not a date do you not understand Éponine.’ Liar.”

“Get off me,” Montparnasse complains, pushing her away, but he can’t quite keep that grin in the corner of his mouth in check.

“But how the hell did this happen?” she asks curiously, calming down a little. “Why now?”

Montparnasse shrugs and sits down. “They came over yesterday.”

Éponine sits down too, looking at him expectantly.

Montparnasse raises an eyebrow. “What, you want specifics?”

“Well…” she hums teasingly.

“No way.”

Éponine snickers and shakes her head. “But you don’t date people,” she says, looking at him in fascination. “You fuck around with people. Very _specific_ people.”

She’s absolutely right, but still Montparnasse only shrugs. As if that’s enough to wipe away literal years of staying away from everything that even resembled a romantic relationship.

“I’m serious, Parnasse,” she tries again. “You were never interested in that stuff.”

“Still aren’t,” Montparnasse says. “But I’m interested in Jehan.”

For a moment Éponine regards him quietly and then she grins again. “You’ve gone _soft_ , is what’s happened,” she taunts. “Softened up by pretty hazel eyes and poetry.” Her eyes widen. “And _god_ , their clothes!”

“I’m surprised you even noticed,” Montparnasse hums, leaning back in his seat. “Wonder Boy looks like a he escaped from a boarding school most of the time.”

“Don’t make this about me,” she grins. “You’re dating a _uni student_ with the literal _worst_ sense of fashion I have ever met.” She laughs again and her expression softens. “And about the sweetest person I’ve ever met too.” Her eyes fix on his. “I hope you’re serious about this.”

_That_ is a remark Montparnasse has prepared for. “I don’t do things by halves,” he hums.

“You mean you have no moderation,” Éponine snarks, slumping backwards into the couch.

“Same thing,” Montparnasse smirks. She doesn’t need to know everything that happened. She _definitely_ doesn’t need to know the mess that was his mind until early this morning. As long as she’s on his side in this thing.

“In this case, maybe,” Éponine mutters. She glances at him. “But you’re not…freaking out or anything?”

He looks back at her. “No,” he says. “They want me and I want them. What the fuck is there to freak out about?” It sounds deliciously simple when he puts it like that.

Éponine is silent for a moment, but then she smiles. “Sure,” she quips. “Why the hell not. I mean, I’m fine with you skipping the commitment issues, I really am.”

“Don’t mistake me for Babet,” Montparnasse smirks.

Éponine lets out a short laugh which turns into a wide grin on her face. “Please tell me the guys haven’t met them yet,” she says eagerly. “Because I need to be there when they do.”

Right. This is the important part. “They haven’t,” Montparnasse says, fixing his eyes on Éponine’s. “They don’t know. And you’re not going to tell them.”

The grin slips off Éponine’s face, but Montparnasse was prepared for this and he stares her down.

“I didn’t tell them about Wonder Boy,” he reminds her.

“That’s not—”

“It’s not up to you,” he says firmly. He’s is going to enjoy this for as long as it lasts, but however long that might be, it won’t be long enough and his friends make things complicated. He doesn’t want complicated right now.

There’s a frown stuck on Éponine’s face. “Parnasse, if you’re going to keep this a secret—”

“I’m telling you, aren’t I,” he scoffs. Éponine is different of course. Jehan already knows her. She would have found out anyway. “I’ll tell them when we’re bloody ready for it,” he lies.

Using the word ‘we’ was clearly the right choice, because Éponine shuts her mouth and gives him a reluctant nod.

Montparnasse relaxes a little. Once Éponine has agreed to something she doesn’t go back on it. She might start a fight about it later, but she doesn’t break her word behind someone’s back. After a while a small smile returns to her face and she says:

“Zelma said you two were cute together.”

He hums and thinks of Jehan with their hair all tangled up in braids. He’s smiling before he realizes it.

“Disgusting,” Éponine grins, giving him a playful shove. A spark jumps into her eyes. “You know who _is_ going to know about you dating Jehan,” she says, her voice suspiciously gleeful. “ _All_ of Jehan’s friends. And you’re going to have to deal with every single fucking one of them.”

The face Montparnasse pulls is just as involuntary as the smile was and it makes Éponine laugh out loud.

♦♦♦

Éponine is right. In two ways. Firstly, dating Jehan isn’t all that different to being friends with Jehan (it just comes with more perks and considerably less frustration). Secondly, it does indeed involve having to deal with _all_ of Jehan’s friends.

“Thank you for coming with,” Jehan says, squeezing Montparnasse’s hand.

He squeezes back instead of answering. They’re on their way to a place called the Musain and Montparnasse is not exactly looking forward to it. Hanging out with the entire overexcited mess of Jehan’s friends at a typical student café is hardly how he’d like to spend his evening. Especially considering it’s the only evening this week that he and Jehan have time for each other. Still, he wasn’t going to say no to the first real request Jehan had made of him as their boyfriend. Boyfriend. Montparnasse never imagined he would be called that by anyone and genuinely _like_ it.

The café is nice enough and Jehan waves happily at the girl behind the bar before pulling him straight through to the back, where Jehan’s friends are almost managing to look like an entire crowd all by themselves.

Jehan raises their voice in greeting and Montparnasse sees very clearly that nobody is surprised by his being there. Obviously his presence has been announced. That doesn’t stop Enjolras from looking mildly surprised though and it certainly doesn’t stop Marius from looking disgruntled. The others all seem to be in various states of conflicted and pleased, the latter category most enthusiastically represented by Grantaire, who tries to wave them over immediately. He is sharing the couch with Enjolras though and Jehan blows him a kiss and pulls Montparnasse towards a different corner of the room instead. Specifically a corner occupied by Bahorel giving what might be relationship advice to Joly and/or Bossuet. (Montparnasse is unsure which is which and he is, interestingly, also unsure to which of the two this advice is principally addressed). All three of them happily make room for them, however, and apart from a few jokey warnings they don’t seem to have any problem with the fact that Montparnasse has shifted from ‘person Jehan likes somehow’ to ‘person Jehan is wrapped around affectionately’. Because this whole hanging out with friends thing certainly has one thing going for it: Jehan clearly has zero problems with public displays affection.

“God, you’re worse than Bahorel and Risa,” Courfeyrac informs them. He takes a picture and tuts when Montparnasse turns his face away so it’s hidden behind Jehan.

“Well,” Bahorel grins. “That means we’ll have to step up our game. I’ll let her know.” He pulls out his phone.

“Please don’t,” Combeferre says, distributing some drinks.

“Thank you, Ferre,” Jehan says warmly, taking the glass of wine.

“Oh are we drinking?” Montparnasse chuckles, pressing a kiss on their shoulder. “However will we make it to work tomorrow.”

Jehan laughs and runs a hand through his hair while sipping their wine, but Montparnasse can feel Combeferre’s eyes on him just a moment too long. He ignores it. That’s what he does with all the lingering glances the rest of the evening. Several of Jehan’s friends clearly don’t care for him, but Montparnasse doesn’t give a toss about that. They are polite to him and he is polite back, there is no need for anything more. The only reason to care would be if _Jehan_ cared and they either don’t or are unaware of their friends' hesitation. Besides, most of them are alright. Montparnasse has seen Marius and Enjolras glance in his direction while talking to each other more than once, but the others are trying to be pleasant. At least it’s pleasant enough to keep Jehan happy, who is getting delightfully tipsy and increasingly giggly.

So he’s actually not having too bad a time when Grantaire finally manages to corner him during a quiet moment.

“You look shockingly not miserable,” Grantaire grins.

Montparnasse smirks. “What? No badly hidden stare of faint disapproval at my audacity to dare and date your friend?”

Grantaire snorts. “By now I’d be more likely to kick your ass if you didn’t date them,” he says. “You two took your time.”

Montparnasse slants his head. “From what I’ve heard you’re not in a position to throw stones.”

“You can’t attack me like that in my own domain,” Grantaire says indignantly, making a grand sweeping gesture to the whole of the Musain. “Be gone. Back to the realms from whence you came.”

“Rude,” Jehan’s voice comes suddenly through the noise around them and two arms wrap around Montparnasse from behind. “Don’t try to dispel Parnasse, he can’t go yet.”

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” Montparnasse grins, dropping a kiss on their lips.

“Unacceptable,” Grantaire says approvingly. “Go be aesthetic and affectionate somewhere else.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Montparnasse says and he wraps his arms firmly enough around Jehan’s waist to halfway carry them away to the nearest couch. Jehan manages to grab Grantaire by the sleeve as he does so and they end up on the couch with Grantaire and Bahorel for company. Montparnasse finds himself having an actual conversation with the latter, while Jehan fusses over Grantaire’s hair. Which is how Montparnasse finds out that Bahorel is _considerably_ better acquainted with Feuilly than he previously thought. Bahorel’s general friendliness towards him suddenly makes a lot more sense, it seems he has taken Feuilly’s word for it that Montparnasse is alright. Montparnasse is vaguely pleased with this, but not as pleased as he is with the fact that Feuilly isn’t here. Jehan is sorry for it, saying several times that they hope Feuilly will show up soon, but Montparnasse had rather he didn’t. It would make things complicated. Right now, with Jehan on his lap, Bahorel and Grantaire being loud to one side and Jehan’s other friends easy to avoid on the other, things are rather simple. At least they are until a seating rearrangement forces him into the general vicinity of Enjolras and Montparnasse overhears some things that he can’t help replying to.

Five sarcastic remarks later Courfeyrac very loudly introduces a pointed change of subject and Enjolras sinks into a disapproving silence. Montparnasse doesn’t even pretend to hide his satisfaction and since Jehan only caught the end of it, he has not a single reason to feel sorry. Still, he’s been here long enough. This was quite enough for one night.

“Think I might go home,” Montparnasse mutters into Jehan’s hair when things have calmed down again. It really is time for him to leave.

“Aw, don’t go yet,” Jehan coaxes. “Feuilly says he’s coming after all.”

That’s an incentive to go, not stay, but Montparnasse merely hums and hugs them a little closer. He’s very tempted to turn the tables on them and invite them to leave with him. It’s a Friday after all, Babet and Claquesous won’t be home. Gueulemer will be though.

“You tell him I said hi,” Montparnasse says, reluctantly releasing Jehan from his embrace.

“Okay,” Jehan relents, smiling. They’re still not quite willing to let him go though and it takes Montparnasse quite a while before he’s actually heading out the door. As soon as it closes behind him, Montparnasse lets out a breath of relief. Shit, he’s more tired than he realized.

He holds still for a moment to light a cigarette and when he looks up, Feuilly is there.

“Hey,” he grins. “You just leaving?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Montparnasse nods. Did he dodge a bullet there or what.

Feuilly nods too, hesitates, glances through the café window and then, to Montparnasse’s surprise, sits down on the bench in front of it.

“So,” he says, smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You and Jehan. Again.”

Montparnasse groans and Feuilly laughs. It sounds a lot more cheerful than Montparnasse had expected and after a moment of conflict, he sits down beside Feuilly. There’s a short silence and Montparnasse doesn’t like it.

“I’m not fucking around,” he grunts, focussing on his cigarette.

“I know,” Feuilly says. “You never do.”

Montparnasse forgets not to look at him and stares.

Feuilly chuckles. “I’ve seen you fuck _up_ a lot, but you never fuck around. I don’t think ‘half measures’ exist in your vocabulary.”

Montparnasse hums, slightly taken aback, and looks away again.

There’s a short, thoughtful silence that’s too comfortable to be awkward and too tense to be easy.

“Jehan seems really happy,” Feuilly says eventually.

Montparnasse doesn’t respond, but the thought of Jehan hurrying to tell Feuilly makes it hard not to smile. Maybe he’s the first person they told, because they know he knows him.

“Are you?” Feuilly asks.

Montparnasse is still partially lost in his feelings and before he can answer, Feuilly prompts:

“Happy, I mean.”

Montparnasse looks at him. “Yes.” He doesn’t give any further explanation, because he doesn’t know how to explain even half of it. He hasn’t a clue what he’s doing really, he just knows he wants to keep doing it. And yes, for lack of a better word, he’s happy.

Feuilly looks pleased and he doesn’t ask for explanations. He just nods. “Good,” he says and suddenly he’s smiling in a wide, warm way that makes Montparnasse squirm a little.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “My soul is saved, praise be.” He gives a motion of his head towards the door. “Go join your fraternity, they’re all heartbroken over how late you are.”

Feuilly doesn’t move, instead he gives Montparnasse a strange look and says: “That time at the workshop. I wasn’t going to tell you to stay away from them, if that’s what you thought.”

That was _definitely_ what he thought. Montparnasse frowns slightly. “What were you going to say then?” he asks.

The expression on Feuilly’s face leans towards a grimace for a moment. “Something that wasn’t any of my business,” he says. “You told me off and you were right.”

Montparnasse doesn’t remember what he said, but he highly doubts he ‘told Feuilly off’. “What _were_ you going to say,” he presses.

“Doesn’t matter anymore.” He grins. “Since you two are happily _dating_ now.”

Montparnasse pulls a face. “You’re the worst.”

Feuilly chuckles and still doesn’t move to get up. Montparnasse sits next to him in silence and smokes. He wants to know what Feuilly is on about, but in a way he’s right, whatever it was doesn’t matter anymore. Whether it was a warning or question or something else entirely, it won’t change anything now.

“…your mother wrote to Cerise.”

Montparnasse has tensed up before he’s aware of moving. He carefully wills his body back into its former position and waits until he has enough composure to speak. “Your choices on when to be honest and communicative are just capital, Feuilly,” he sneers.

Feuilly glances at him but says nothing. He doesn’t like white lies, Montparnasse knows that. Their foster mother must have told Feuilly because he is the only one he’s still in contact with. Montparnasse never got along with Cerise, but even he must allow that even if she did know his address, she’d never give it to _anyone_ , least of all his damn mother.

Feuilly is still quiet, looking rather sober. It doesn’t look good on him. Montparnasse doesn’t want to know but—

“Did you read it?”

“What, _no_ ,” Feuilly says strongly. “I don’t even have it. Cerise just told me in case you- You know.”

In case he’d changed his mind. “Tell her to send it back. Or throw it away.”

“Alright,” Feuilly nods, tone free of judgement. He’s good at that, that neutral look.

Montparnasse thinks back to the first time he’d talked to Jehan about his parents. They hadn’t been neutral, far from it in fact. Montparnasse smiles involuntarily at the memory of Jehan’s disdainful face. They had been so angry for him…

“She always asks how you’re doing, you know,” Feuilly hums. “They both do.”

“Touching,” Montparnasse says drily and Feuilly sights, pulling a face.

He slants his head, a smile starting in his eyes and says: “You remember that time you snuck Claquesous into your room through the window?”

Montparnasse cringes and grins at the memory at the same time.

“You guys had nearly the same hair back then, that’s the _only_ reason you pulled that off.”

Montparnasse grins. “And you not telling on us,” he says.

Feuilly rolls his eyes. “Like I would have.”

“You would have if they had asked you outright,” Montparnasse says accusingly. “You were their favourite for a reason.”

“They both really try not to have favourites,” Feuilly says. “Really.”

Montparnasse scoffs.

“And anyway it wasn’t me,” Feuilly says. “It was definitely Mireille.”

“Ugh,” Montparnasse groans. “ _Mireille_.”

Feuilly laughs softly.

“Why were you even there that time?” Montparnasse says, shaking his head. “You already had your own place then!” But then again, Feuilly had come back a lot.

“Oh, probably just to spy on you,” Feuilly hums. He grins. “I thought you were dating him, by the way.”

Montparnasse’s laugh is sharp, but genuine. “Sous?”

“Hm,” Feuilly chuckles.

“So you didn’t just neglect to tell dear Cerise and Marcel I was sneaking someone in, you thought I was hiding my _boyfriend_ in my _bedroom_ and you never told. No wonder you weren’t the favourite after all.”

Feuilly shakes his head, grinning.

Montparnasse chuckles and flicks his cigarette butt away. “Boyfriend,” he scoffs. “As if.”

“Jehan calls you their boyfriend,” Feuilly says warmly.

Montparnasse smirks. “Yeah, so you were about seven years late in your guess, but you got there.”

“Six,” Feuilly corrects.

“Whatever.”

They grin at each other and Montparnasse realizes it’s been a really long time since they actually talked like this. Feuilly’s phone pings and Montparnasse makes a face.

“Told you, they’re all _pining_ for you.”

Feuilly clicks his tongue and gets up, bumping his shoulder against Montparnasse’s as he does. “Well,” he hums. “I’ll tell Jehan I was just in time to see you still, shall I?”

Montparnasse nods, getting to his feet as well. “Have fun,” he drawls.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t,” Feuilly grins.

Fair enough, but Montparnasse doesn’t have to acknowledge that. He gives Feuilly an upwards nod and walks away, his back to the door when it opens in a burst of sound. It closes again and Montparnasse crosses the street, taking the time to breathe in some night air.

“Parnasse!”

He turns around just in time to see Jehan flying the last few steps towards him. They’re already slowing down, but they have enough momentum left for Montparnasse to catch them by the arms and pull them towards him.

“Hey,” he grins, face close to theirs. “Long time no see.”

“Feuilly said I could still catch you if I was quick,” they pant.

“Well, you caught me,” Montparnasse says softly.

Jehan’s eyes shine and with a smile they gently drag him down by his collar and into a kiss. Montparnasse kisses them, closing his eyes against the unflattering light of the streetlights, and toys with the startling happiness unfurling in his mind.

“Okay,” Jehan sighs, slowly letting go of him. “I guess you can go now.”

“You sure?” Montparnasse teases and he steals another kiss before letting them dance across the street again, back into the bright light and warmth of the Musain.

As the door closes behind them and Montparnasse feels the diffused tingles in his chest and stomach, he suddenly realizes that he has missed this. The strange and the sudden. Like the half-uncertain meetings in the store. Those were special. Different. Goodnight texts, hanging out with friends, that’s…good. It’s steady. But it’s not enough. What he needs, is to take Jehan out on a proper date.

What he _needs_ is evening air.

Because Jehan may look like the sun itself, but the way they just kissed him, they would only have done that in the dark. Montparnasse grins. How fortunate then, that this city after dark had been his personal playground for roughly half a decade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve passed a hundred kudo’s and I am just overwhelmed. Thank you all so much! I hope you enjoyed this slightly calmer chapter. Next time we’re turning up the Romance again <3
> 
> ( For a peek into Parnasse and Feuilly’s relationship a few years back, there is a snippet [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12776037/chapters/29456394) )


	11. Montparnasse is not romantic

“Where are we going?” Jehan has asked him twice already, but they keep trying.

“Do you really want to know?” Montparnasse teases. “I thought you liked surprises.”

“Ah,” Jehan huffs in frustration and they squeeze his hand.

Montparnasse smiles. He could just lead them around the block another time. Walking with Jehan like this, hand in hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he could get used to that. Still, he’s scarcely less eager to see Jehan’s reaction than Jehan is to see what he’s got planned. So after one more needless detour he leads them to the familiar kind of chain-link fence that always seems to surround all building sites. Montparnasse holds still and Jehan looks up at him curiously.

“I _know_ you can climb fences,” he winks. “Or at least that you try.”

Even in the near dark he can see Jehan’s cheeks flush. “I don’t have my bag with me this time,” they grin. “What’s over this fence then?”

“You’ll see,” he hums. “Need a hand?”

He helps Jehan over the fence and climbs after them. There’s a reason he wore old shoes tonight. He hasn’t done this in a long time. It’s definitely worth it to see all that excitement bubbling on Jehan’s face. They watch him jump down with a happy, but nervous shuffle of their feet.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a grin. “No one will be here. Some companies invest in security, others don’t bother.” He gestures at the sign on the fence. “They never bother.”

“How do you know that?” Jehan asks quietly, slipping their hand back in his.

Montparnasse makes an amused sound. “You know first-hand I have no problem breaking in to places,” he reminds them teasingly. “You shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I’m not,” Jehan says. “But still, how do you know?”

He grimaces. “Trial and error.”

They laugh softly and squeeze his hand again. Montparnasse squeezes back and pulls them towards the large, dark building that he set his sights on for tonight. It’s a small shopping mall that has been closed for ‘renovations’ for as long as Montparnasse can remember. For as long as he’s had an interest in it at least.

Breaking in just as easy as it was last time, which is almost a little disappointing, and before Jehan can whisper any more excited questions they’re inside. Montparnasse puts a finger to his lips and pulls them towards the main hall, which he knows has a dome in the roof. There’s really no reason to be quiet, but it feels right and clearly Jehan feels it too. Their footsteps echo in the empty darkness and Jehan walks very close to him.

“You’re not frightened are you, vögelchen?” he murmurs.

“Why?” they answer, sounding just as teasing. “Aren’t I with the scariest thing in here?”

Montparnasse laughs and stops at the end of the corridor. “Maybe…”

Jehan gasps. The hall is hollow and empty, but grey light falls through the glass dome above them and it doesn’t matter if it’s the light from the city or the shine from the stars and moon. It turns the shadows into living whispers in every corner and it’s exactly as it should be.

“Beautiful,” Jehan breathes. They let go of Montparnasse’s hand and wander into the twilight.

Montparnasse watches them go with a smile on his lips. That is more like it. Strange and special. For some reason he needed to know he could still make this happen. To feel this way, make Jehan feel this way. Not that it feels exactly the same as the stolen moments in the store… It feels less stolen. But just as special.

Slowly, Montparnasse follows Jehan as they walk, trailing after their wandering, searching steps. Until they turn around to face him. They look lovely…

“Show me more.” Jehan’s voice is eager and their hazel eyes are darkened by the shadows. _Lovely_.

“What do you want to see?” Montparnasse smiles.

“ _Everything_.”

 

Together they wander from corridor to corridor, going into every abandoned store that they can reasonably get into. Watching Jehan fall under the spell of this place is everything Montparnasse had hoped it would be. They grow more and more restless, until they eventually ask distractedly:

“Can we sit down somewhere? I— I have to write for a while.”

Montparnasse chuckles. “Sure,” he says and he sets off in search of a spot with enough light.

They end up sitting on a concrete bench, Jehan scribbling in a tiny notebook they must have hidden in one of the many pockets of their coat, and leaning against Montparnasse as they do so. It’s too dark for Montparnasse to see what Jehan is writing, but even with more light he doubts he would have been able to. Jehan’s regular handwriting is terrible, not at all like the elegant swirls of their calligraphy. Eventually their frantic scribbling slows down and it’s almost as if Montparnasse can hear the quiet slowly returning to their mind. They click their pen and lean into him some more. Montparnasse hears them breathe out a smile.

“For someone who doesn’t date…you’re pretty good at it,” they praise teasingly.

Montparnasse laughs softly, wrapping his arms more firmly around them now they’re no longer writing. “Of course I am.”

Jehan snorts and pokes him in his ribs, but far too soft to even make him squirm. Montparnasse grins into the dark around them and presses a kiss to the side of their head.

“Might have known you wouldn’t be a dinner and a movie kind of guy,” Jehan hums, wrapping their hand around his where it’s resting against their waist.

Dinner and a movie… “We can do that next time,” Montparnasse says softly, and he adds, without even knowing why: “I’ve never done that either.”

Jehan makes a soft, gentle sound that Montparnasse doesn’t answer because he can’t quite read it. They sit in silence for a while, Jehan looking around pensively.

“From the outside it looks like this place is dead inside,” they whisper finally. “Except it’s not. It’s waiting.”

Montparnasse listens attentively without making a sound.

Jehan hums thoughtfully. “I read somewhere once that there are two stages of death,” they mutter. “The one where you’re still needed by the living, still called upon in memories and feeling. And the one after that, when you can truly rest…sleep.”

Montparnasse leans his shin against the crown of their head. “A man’s not dead while his name’s still spoken,” he mutters.

“That’s pretty,” Jehan says softly. “What’s that from?’

“Don’t remember,” Montparnasse says. Probably something Babet quoted at him, although now he thinks about it, it might have been Claquesous for once.

They both fall silent again and vaguely, at the very back of his mind, Montparnasse wonders if he’s ever known a calm moment that was as perfect as this. Jehan snuggles closer against him and he presses a kiss on the edge of their forehead. What is he supposed to do with so much calm? So much calm and warmth…

Something in Jehan’s movements wakes him from his faraway thoughts and he gently touches their face. “Are you cold?” he hums.

“A little,” Jehan murmurs and before Montparnasse can ask anything else they protest: “But let’s not leave yet. I like it here.”

Montparnasse grins. “Who said anything about leaving, vögelchen,” he hums. “Come on.” He unwraps his arms from around Jehan – the disagreement in Jehan’s makes him grin even wider – and gets to his feet. “Let’s take the long way back,” he suggests, pulling Jehan to their feet.

He can just see their smile in the greyish light.

For as long as they feel like it, like time is alive only for other people, they wander around freely. Chasing shadows, kissing in hidden corners, following their own footsteps across empty floors. Only when Jehan’s footsteps start to slow down, Montparnasse leads them towards the exit. He doesn’t want Jehan to be too tired for a pleasant walk back. He wants tonight to have been perfect.

They step outside into the chilly night and there is no mistaking the moonlight now. It pours around them both, but it seems to cling to Jehan more than to Montparnasse. He grins down at them and they look up, moontanned and starry-eyed. And because the moment calls for it, Montparnasse bows, holds out his hand and says:

“May I see you home, Jehan Prouvaire?”

They make a soft, delighted noise and grab his hand. “Only if you come inside as well.”

♦

Montparnasse has seen so many pictures of it that he’d almost forget he has never actually been to Jehan’s place before. He’s not nervous, but he is a little hesitant. He’s pretty sure Jehan wants him to stay the night, but they haven’t actually _said_ so.

“Quietly,” Jehan whispers when they open the front door.

“What?” Montparnasse grins. “Are you not allowed to have boys over?”

Jehan’s cheeks flush and their eyes twinkle. “Do you _want_ to wake up my housemates then?” they warn.

Montparnasse leans forward as if he’s going to kiss them. “Do you really care or do you just think sneaking in is more fun?” From what he’s heard, it doesn’t seem like Jehan likes their housemates that much. Not all of them at least.

Jehan’s hazel eyes flash up at him and without saying another word they ghost a quick kiss against his lips and dart inside. Montparnasse makes a grab for them, but misses. With a grin he closes the heavy door behind him as soundlessly as he can and follows Jehan down the corridor with its annoyingly fluorescent safety lights. Jehan unlocks the door to their room and stands back smilingly to let him enter. As soon as he does, they flick on the light and close the door behind them with a reassuring click.

Montparnasse looks around. Their room is rather small and full of stuff, but somehow it doesn’t feel cramped. It _is_ very busy though. There are as many clashing colours as there are on Jehan’s clothes. It’s a strange, but this room that Montparnasse has never seen before, really feels familiar to him. The cardigan Jehan was wearing when they showed up at his door that fateful afternoon is draped across a chair. On the windowsill and on the shelves of the bookcase there are numerous plants, many of which in strangely shaped pottery which Montparnasse knows they made themself. The bookcase itself is familiar too and so is the skull on one of the higher shelves, he has seen it in Jehan’s selfies. And then there’s the mirror of course. Hanging on the wall in all it’s shattered, gold-dripping glory.

“Oh,” Jehan gasps. “You’ve never seen it for real!”

“No…” Montparnasse says, walking towards it with slow steps.

He holds still in front of it and stares at the bleeding gold until Jehan comes to stand beside him, leaning against his shoulder. They don’t say anything, but Montparnasse can see their smiling eyes reflected in the broken glass, distorted and multiplied. He can see them both. In a shattered image with gold seeping from every crack. He swallows. The silence suddenly feels heavy.

Jehan breathes a contented sigh and Montparnasse manages to look away. Instead he looks at the multitude of pictures stuck to the wall. There are a _lot_ of them. He recognizes Jehan’s friends of course and the two vaguely familiar female faces he sees repeated several times have to be their mothers, but there are also a lot of pictures of Jehan with small children. Montparnasse had not expected that. Hadn’t Jehan said they wished for siblings?

“Cousins,” Jehan grins in explanation to the unasked question. “Five and counting. Courf and I have a competition going who can gather the most. Of course he has brothers, I only have my uncle.”

“Your uncle gets busy then,” Montparnasse hums.

Jehan snorts. “Mama says he thinks he has to catch up for starting so late.”

They turn around and start to take off their shoes, but Montparnasse has just spotted his own face among the pictures and he looks a little longer, feeling stupidly happy. There’s actually several pictures of him. One of them must be one of the first selfies he ever sent them… Jehan moves past him on the way to their cupboard and he catches them by the hand, pulling them into a hug. Jehan lifts up their face immediately, which very rapidly turns the hug into a kiss. Montparnasse can feel Jehan smile against his lips and he kisses them with all the untraceable happiness he has locked in his chest.

Jehan’s fingers grab the front of his jacket and they pull him backwards, step by step, until they end up on Jehan’s bed. It’s a good while before they break apart to breathe. When Montparnasse finally does he pulls back a little and looks at Jehan, lying back with a tussle of red locks framing their flushed face. Despite all this he can’t help but give the bed a bemused look. He hadn’t noticed before, but it’s built like a damn brick house.

“Is this supposed to protect you from something?” he asks, drawing up an eyebrow and knocking on the solid block of wood forming one of the sides.

Jehan laughs. “My mom made it for me!” they say happily. They grin. “We had to take half of it apart to move it.”

Montparnasse snorts. He has no trouble believing that. He realizes he’s still got his shoes on and takes them off while Jehan scoots further towards the wall and stretches out properly on the mattress.

“She made it for my sixteenth birthday,” they say fondly. “Actually—” They laugh. “She jokingly offered to build me a coffin. You should have seen her face when I said yes.”

Montparnasse smiles vaguely and puts his shoes aside.

“I was joking,” Jehan says. “ _Mostly_.” They grin at Montparnasse when he comes to lie beside them, on his side so he can look at them. “So she made this instead. And a little coffin pencil box.” Jehan points towards their desk. “I keep my calligraphy stuff in there now.”

It’s not that Montparnasse doesn’t want to hear about Jehan’s family, it’s just that whenever they talk about it he feels like he should be saying something back. But Montparnasse has said everything he wants to say on that subject already, he had rather that Jehan talked some more instead.

“Your parents sound cool,” he hums. It sounds pretty stupid when he says it like that.

Jehan smiles, with just a little edge of surprise in their eyes.

Montparnasse says nothing.

“Yeah,” Jehan says softly. “I’m lucky… Didn’t always think so in high school, but I know I am.”

“People gave you grief about having two moms?” Montparnasse asks.

“No,” Jehan says. “Well, not really.” They look up at him with a slight shake of the head. “More about—” They pull a face. “My mom’s got a donor. There was one girl at my first high school that said I was a science experiment.”

There is no hurt in Jehan’s voice as they say it, but Montparnasse still feels a stab of anger.

“I told her I was made out of love and charity,” Jehan says stoutly. “And to go fuck herself.”

Montparnasse laughs. Half poetry, half righteous fury. Perfect.

Jehan laughs back at him. “The teacher sent us both the principal’s office.”

“For swearing?” Montparnasse asks. God people are jerks, as if Jehan hadn’t said anything that girl damn well deserved.

“No,” Jehan grimaces. “She told me I was unnatural—”

There is the strangest twitch in Montparnasse’s fingers all of a sudden.

“—so I told her she wasn’t special just because her dad couldn’t find anything more interesting to do than her mom.”

“And how was that received,” Montparnasse grins, not bothering to hide his delight.

Jehan lets out a groaning laugh and covers their face. “Like I said, principal’s office.”

“I hope they gave you some sort of language reward,” Montparnasse hums amusedly, propping his head up a little higher on his elbow. “That’s a very well phrased comeback for a— how old were you?”

“Fourteen?” Jehan says, dropping their hands and smiling half-embarrassedly. They sigh with a sort of resigned amusement. “I got expelled from there not long after.”

Montparnasse can’t quite keep the surprise out of his expression.

“What?” Jehan says. “I told you I switched schools right?”

“Well, yeah,” Montparnasse says. “But I didn’t— They expelled you for shit like this?”

“No…” Jehan say slowly. “Well, technically they didn’t expel me. But I don’t know what it’s called when they ask your parents to please please please take your child away from us.”

Montparnasse doesn’t know what that is called either, but it doesn’t matter. He would have expected neither to have happened to Jehan.

“I was really unhappy there though,” Jehan says, in a way that makes Montparnasse think there’s a lot more to this story than they’re willing to tell. “They were right to want me out of there. The next school was better… Less bullying.” They smile. “That’s when I changed my name.”

Montparnasse gives them a slow smile and smooths a ruffle on their collar. “And Jehan rose from the ashes…” he says. He’s lightening his tone deliberately. If Jehan wants to change the subject they can do it easily now.

Jehan’s eyes shine. “Did you ever change your name?” they ask softly.

“Me, no,” Montparnasse says. At least _he_ never changed it, people always seemed to do that for him. “They called me by my first name in Germany of course, but no one knows how the fuck to pronounce that here, which suits me just fine.”

Jehan looks at him meaningfully and Montparnasse grimaces. “No.”

“Please?” Jehan coaxes.

“Feuilly knows,” Montparnasse points out, half-smiling at Jehan’s pouting expression.

“I’d never ask things like that behind your back!” Jehan protests. They frown. “And Feuilly wouldn’t tell me either.”

Montparnasse hums. “I don’t know,” he grins. “You all seem to think he’s some sort of saint, but have you ever seen him pay someone back for a prank?”

For a moment there is a delighted curiosity on Jehan’s face, but then they pull a face. “You’re trying to distract me.”

“Not at all,” Montparnasse grins. “If I was trying to distract you I’d do this.” He leans forward to kiss them and to his amusement Jehan is more than happy to let him. They pull him closer and closer until, with a rather sudden movement and a strength that still surprises Montparnasse, they push him with his back onto the mattress and swing one leg over his. They settle on top of him, all but pinning him down, and the curtain of their hair drapes down on both sides of Montparnasse’s face as they kiss even deeper. When they finally pull away, they’re both gasping for air.

Jehan makes a gorgeous breathless sound and Montparnasse looks up at them, at the curve of their parting lips and suddenly he does want to tell them. He wants to hear them say his full name.

“It’s Dietrich,” he sighs, making it sound like a proper confession, spoken with resigned distaste. “Dietrich Engel. The first because my mother was stupid enough to fall for my father and the second because she couldn’t be bothered to check what actually counts as a name and what doesn’t.”

Jehan’s expression is very soft. Their hands spread on Montparnasse’s chest and they repeat: “Dietrich Engel.” Their accent isn’t half bad. “Engel,” they repeat, skipping over his father’s name with exactly the right amount of indifference. A smile sparks in their eyes. “So I could call you Angel?”

They can call him whatever the hell they want. Jehan leans down and kisses him, so softly he barely feels it. There is a strange, light feeling in his head and he’d like more of it. Jehan lips move from his lips to his cheeks then back to his mouth and down to his neck. In between kisses they murmur something about angels that Montparnasse can barely hear. The sounds blur together until he recognises the sound of his own name.

“Parnasse suits you best,” they purr. They pull back a little, eyes shining. “Or maybe…” They smile. “I’m your little bird right?”

“Absolutely,” Montparnasse breathes, gazing up at them.

“Then you’re my louveteau,” they say, voice almost a whisper, and they bring their face towards his again.

“Mm,” Montparnasse hums and he meets their mouth with his own. The lightness has filled his head and is settling in his chest now.

Jehan stops talking and kisses him deeper until they are lying fully on top of him, legs tangled with his, hands in his hair. They pull back just a little and Montparnasse opens his eyes to look at them.

They smile at him and their voice comes out wonderfully breathy when they speak again. “Do you want to sleep over?”

Montparnasse grins, slides a hand into their hair and pulls them back into the kiss. All of him is light and free, and he doesn’t believe in answering rhetorical questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jehan’s reflections on death are inspired by something I read myself a long time ago which must have been at least partly inspired by Latin American traditions, but that I sadly cannot find anymore. The quote “A man’s not dead while his name’s still spoken” is from Terry Pratchett’s Going Postal.
> 
> ‘Louveteau’ means young wolf/wolf cub and it’s my new favourite word.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	12. Montparnasse never apologises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: (social) insecurities, hints at dysphoria, philosophical but slightly morbid discussion of grief/mourning.  
> (But no angst, I _promise_. Why are you all so worried? Who hurt you??)
> 
> [This chapter features a song, if you want to listen to it when it comes up, [here it is.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fwc9QK-pHe0&ab_channel=Sage125) ]

The following weeks are a mix of blissful moments and frustration at not being able to see Jehan whenever he wants. This week is certainly far too busy for Montparnasse’s liking. Gueulemer is in a foul mood for some inexplicable reason and Claquesous and Babet can talk of nothing but the new show they just agreed to put on for a location they’ve never played before. Montparnasse is so irritable he’s getting on his own damn nerves. Which is why he takes the car to work on Saturday.

♦

“Excuse me, I have a question about the exhibit.”

Jehan spins round with wide eyes. “Parnasse!” They hastily bring their voice back down and Montparnasse swallows a laugh. “What are you doing here?” they whisper delightedly.

“Indulging in some culture,” he smirks. “What else.”

They glance around and Montparnasse can see them swaying towards him, but there are definitely people looking at them already and Jehan thinks the better of it. They clear their throat. “If you wanted a tour I’m afraid you’re a little late,” they say, eyes shining. “My shift is almost over.”

“What a pity,” Montparnasse grins. He feels better already. In fact he felt better as soon as he set eyes on Jehan. They look strange in their museum uniform. It’s only a shirt and blazer, but the colours are unusually dark for them. It looks good on them, but Montparnasse wishes it was fitted properly. It’s a crying shame.

Jehan makes a beckoning motion with their head and Montparnasse follows them to the next room. He has no doubt there are beautiful things in this place and Jehan probably knows all about them, but right now he really only has attention for Jehan themself, nothing else.

“I’ve got the car with,” he hums, pretending to look at the stone effigies. “Anywhere you’d like to go?” He could do with an evening of drifting around, only Jehan for company.

“Um, I’m actually expected at Courf’s,” Jehan mumbles. “It’s game night.” They sound apologetic and Montparnasse would be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little disappointed, but he smiles all the same.

“I’ll give you a ride then.”

Jehan gives him a happy glance and nods. “That’d be lovely.”

Montparnasse has found out that that hanging out with all Jehan’s friends isn’t exactly necessary to them, as long as he’s willing to show his face every now and again. Dropping them off at one of their many hangout is a relatively painless way to do so and besides, he loves driving with them. That being said, a party at Courfeyrac’s place – sadly – means two things. The first is that Enjolras is probably going to be there and the second is that Marius is definitely going to be there, since he lives there too.

Upon entering the apartment, two steps behind Jehan, Montparnasse finds out he’s wrong about the probability of those two statements. Marius is nowhere to be found, but Enjolras _is_ there. In all his glaring glory.

“Starlight of all of our lives! _Finally_ ,” Grantaire bursts forth as soon as Jehan comes through the door. He wraps Jehan up in a hug and grins provokingly at Montparnasse.

Montparnasse gives him a sneering smile. He’s gotten used to the overly affectionate manner of most of Jehan’s friends by now, Grantaire will have to try a lot harder to get a rise out of him. The other people present – Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Joly and Bossuet – respond to his raised hand with a variety of silent and verbal greetings. He hangs back while Jehan greets them all with cheerful hugs, leaning against the wall beside the door and letting his mind wander for a while. Jehan always looks so different when they’re with their friends. Not unlike themself, but, different…

He’s immediately punished for that moment of philosophy, because suddenly Enjolras is beside him.

“Are you staying?” he asks. It doesn’t sound unfriendly, but it’s definitely not an invitation either.

“Just waiting for Jehan,” he hums.

A frown passes over Enjolras’ face. “You’re taking them away again?”

Montparnasse turns his gaze fully on Enjolras. “ _Taking_ them?” he sneers.

“That’s not what I meant,” Enjolras says stiffly.

“Then what did you mean,” Montparnasse says, not bothering to keep the edge out of his voice. He couldn’t care less what Enjolras thinks of him, but he’s never forced Jehan to do _anything_ and if Enjolras thinks he would, he can fuck right off.

Enjolras gives him a hard look. “I’m sure Jehan would like it if you stayed,” he says finally.

Montparnasse snorts. “You sure as hell won’t.”

“This isn’t about me,” Enjolras says. He’s practically staring at Montparnasse and Montparnasse stares back because just because Enjolras is Jehan’s friend doesn’t mean he has to put up with shit like this.

“Isn’t it?” he sneers. “I don’t see anyone else here.”

“I’m Jehan’s friend—” Enjolras begins.

“So you have a right to stick your nose in their business, is that it?” Montparnasse interrupts them snidely. “I would have thought integrity of privacy would have been higher on your list.”

“My _list_?” Enjolras repeats coldly and Montparnasse feels a flash of satisfaction when he sees a flicker of anger in the blue eyes.

“Your list of worthwhile things,” Montparnasse says smoothly. “The one my class of people doesn’t feature on.”

Enjolras looks at him as if he tried to punch him. “I don’t have a list and if I did, ‘class’ wouldn’t feature on it in _any_ way,” he says intensely.

Montparnasse glances around the room full of students and smiles thinly. “Of course it wouldn’t,” he hums.

“If I have something against you it is because of your _character_ ,” Enjolras says.

“If?” Montparnasse scoffs, but this time Enjolras ignores his interruption.

“Like the fact that you’re intelligent, but only use it to be rude.”

“Rude to you,” Montparnasse corrects him unconcernedly.

Enjolras’ eyes snap sparks. “Jehan says you—” He shuts his mouth abruptly and Montparnasse follows suit. Jehan is coming over, followed immediately by Grantaire.

“The gods have to answer for their actions,” the latter sighs heavily, gesturing dramatically between Montparnasse and Enjolras. “ _Look_ at the two of you.” He promptly pulls Enjolras to the side, which leaves Jehan free to push themself up on their toes and press a kiss on Montparnasse’s cheek.

“You _could_ stay and play Munchkin with us, louveteau,” they say teasingly.

“Mmm,” Montparnasse hums, leaning a hand on their shoulder. “Maybe some other time.” Preferably when Blondie isn’t here and there aren’t board games to be played.

“Okay,” Jehan smiles. “Have a good night…”

“I plan to,” Montparnasse grins. He catches Jehan by the hand and pulls them out into the hallway for a proper goodbye, very aware of Enjolras eyes on the both of them.

♦♦♦

There’s a bang on the door. Just one.

Montparnasse gets up and opens, expecting Claquesous. Babet or Gueulemer he would have heard coming. It _is_ Claquesous. Except it’s Claquesous in a baggy hoodie and with his hair un-straightened. At six at night on a Friday.

“Place is a mess,” he grunts, not meeting Montparnasse’s eyes. Montparnasse can see his skin is raw, as if he put on and scrubbed off his stage make-up several times.

“You can come in if you need a break from the swirling vortex of theatrical entropy,” he says with maximum indifference.

Claquesous shrugs and Montparnasse moves away from the door. Claquesous steps inside, footsteps impossibly light considering his heavy boots. At least he’s still wearing those. Claquesous has about a dozen pairs, all with the kind of heavy block heels that he can break someone’s feet with if he brings it down right. Montparnasse doesn’t like to see Claquesous without them.

“TV or music?” Montparnasse asks, keeping his voice and face neutral.

Claquesous shrugs. He’s standing in the middle of the room with tense shoulders and his hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie.

“What was that thing you insisted on me watching a couple weeks ago?” Montparnasse hums.

Claquesous’ jaw is clenched.

“Mozart-something,” Montparnasse says. He really can’t remember. Claquesous showed him some pictures of the costumes, he remembers those.

“Mozart, l’opéra rock,” Claquesous says, raising his head rather suddenly.

“Right,” Montparnasse nods. “Well, I’ve got nothing better to do tonight… Is there a bootleg or something?”

“There’s a stage recording,” Claquesous says, shoulders sagging just a fraction. “Give me your laptop.”

“You know where it is,” Montparnasse snarks.

“Lazy fuck,” Claquesous breathes and that sounded nearly normal.

Montparnasse ducks into the kitchen and grabs a bottle of white and two glasses. If musical theatre and a drink don’t do the trick he can always drag Claquesous outside to break something.

Luckily, vandalism doesn’t seem necessary tonight. After a while Claquesous starts to look more like himself. He starts slouching in his seat like he usually does and has more to say about whatever is passing on the screen. Montparnasse takes note of it, Claquesous knows he does and neither of them mentions it.

The show is rather good. Montparnasse enjoys it at least. Mostly because of the music and the styling, which is clearly why Claquesous wanted to show it to him. He ends up talking about his new show and how he wishes he had a bigger stage at his disposal. By the time they’re nearing the end of the show Montparnasse is getting hungry.

“You want to order in?” he asks.

“The alternative’s you cooking for me?” Claquesous says with a lopsided grin.

“The alternative is you _helping_ me cook,” Montparnasse says pointedly. The emphasis is on _helping_ here, he wouldn’t risk letting his friend do any actual cooking.

“Sure,” Claquesous replies and he fixes his eyes on the screen again.

Montparnasse is musing about some of the wardrobe choices when Claquesous suddenly observes:

“You’re gone a lot lately.”

“How would you know?” Montparnasse says languidly. They’re all gone a lot. Admittedly, Claquesous is probably home the most out of the three of them. But only because, being a performer, he has the weirdest work hours.

“You’re right above me,” Claquesous scoffs. “I can _hear_ it if you’re home.”

Montparnasse sniffs at him and gets another crooked grin in return. He shrugs and turns back to the screen. Claquesous does the same and there’s a short silence on their part, filled with excitable music by the musical’s encore.

“So, does the redhead have a nicer place than you?”

Montparnasse doesn’t quite freeze, but he sits very still. Fuck. If Claquesous knows about Jehan, Babet knows and if Babet knows, Gueulemer knows. So they all know.

Claquesous gives a low chuckle. “Figured they were special,” he mutters. “Usually you brag.”

Montparnasse stares blankly at the computer screen. What’s he supposed to say. That there’s a jacket missing from his closet because he accidentally left it behind at Jehan’s? That he looks forward to Tuesday mornings now, because Jehan has a boring class they pass the time in by texting him? That under his long sleeves there is by now half-faded calligraphy coiled around his arms that Jehan carefully painted on his skin?

“Clearly I don’t need to,” he says, his voice _almost_ level. “Since you know everything anyway.”

“Oh alright,” Claquesous hums amusedly. “Keep your playmate to yourself, see if I care.” He glances over and meets his eyes for a moment. “It _is_ still the redhead then?”

“Jehan,” Montparnasse says, surprising himself.

“Jehan,” Claquesous repeats neutrally. “Alright.”

Montparnasse isn’t looking at him, but he can feel the slight fascination coming off his friend’s face.

“That’s something…new,,” he observes.

“Hm,” Montparnasse hums. It’s a non-distinct hum. He’s good at those.

The credits start rolling by and they both sit in silence for a while.

“Were you going to feed me or what,” Claquesous breaks it when the screen goes black.

“Fetch a fresh bottle from your place and I’ll consider it,” Montparnasse snarks.

“Worst host ever,” Claquesous drawls, getting to his feet.

“Every host is inspired by his guests,” Montparnasse smirks and he walks to the kitchen with strangely cheerful steps.

♦♦♦

_“The wind doth blow today my love_  
_A few small drops of rain_  
 _Never have I had but one true love_  
 _In cold clay she lies slain…”_

Montparnasse is lying on Jehan’s bed, with his head in their lap. Their music taste is eclectic to say the least. So far he has heard some personal favourites, some music he hopes never to hear again and now this melancholy folksy number.

_“Twelve months and a day being up_  
_The dead began to speak_  
 _Oh, who sits weeping on my grave_  
 _And will not let me sleep?”_

“Why is that significant?” Montparnasse asks.

Jehan eyes dart down to his face. “Hm?” they hum.

“A twelve month and a day,” he repeats. “What’s that about?”

There is a spark in Jehan’s eyes and Montparnasse represses a smile. This is why he asks them these things. They always know and they always love to tell. And he loves to see their face light up…

“A year and a day was the accepted period for mourning,” Jehan says. “It’s most well-known from the Victorian era, like, widows were supposed to wear black that long.” They smile sadly. “Not that grief only takes a year, of course…”

Their fingers absent-mindedly weave through Montparnasse’s hair and he looks up at them quietly.

“The girl in song wakes up to tell her beloved to leave her grave and live his life…not to mourn his life away.”

As they often do when talking about such subject Jehan sinks into a pensive silence. Montparnasse closes his eyes and waits, listening to the music. Jehan usually has more to say. Eventually.

“I remember a story,” Jehan mutters and Montparnasse smiles softly. “I think mom told me… About a girl whose fiancé died in a war. And everyone felt for her, but she cried her twelvemonth away and still wouldn’t stop mourning. She cried and cried, until one night there were hooves outside in the dark. Riding all around the house. She went to the window in her nightgown to see who it was and there was her young soldier, ridden on his horse, waiting for her by the gate. She ran outside and called out to him, but he didn’t say a word, he simply picked her up and placed her behind him on his horse. And then he rode off with her, all across the fields, straight to the graveyard, all the way back to his open grave. The horse leapt into the gaping earth, soldier, maiden and all, and no one ever saw either of them again.” Jehan smiles, dreamily, with just a hint of melancholy. “Mourn to long and death comes for you too…”

“Your parents read you _that_ as a bedtime story?” Montparnasse remarks amusedly. “So that’s where it went wrong with you.”

Jehan’s smile fades.

So does Montparnasse’s. He can feel the change in the atmosphere and that was _not_ what he meant. “That was a joke, Jehan,” he says hastily.

Jehan looks away. They don’t retract their hand, but it is no longer stroking through Montparnasse’s hair.

“It was a joke,” he repeats.

“Not a very nice one,” they say, eyes still turned away from him.

They sound dejected, _actually_ hurt. The sound of it nearly squeezes Montparnasse’s throat shut. He sits up and manages to catch their eye. “I’m sorry,” he says earnestly.

Jehan swallows. “Okay…” they mutter.

“I didn’t mean—” Montparnasse shuts his mouth. He really is sorry, but he doesn’t understand. Watching Jehan walk down the street is like seeing the sunlight pouring down. It’s unstoppable. No matter how many people stare, they are unfazed. Then he remembers the crows and looks down at his hands. “Jehan,” he says gently. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” Jehan interrupts and he looks up. They are smiling awkwardly. “I’m overreacting, I know you didn’t mean it like that. It’s just…” Their smile is nearly a grimace. “Other people do.”

 Montparnasse frowns at them. There’s something on their face that makes his insides twist. It’s not fear and it doesn’t look like the hurt from a moment ago. It’s something that almost resembles resignation and Montparnasse wishes to god he could physically take hold of it and smash it to pieces against the wall. “Jehan,” he says seriously. “Whatever I may say, I will _never_ mean it like that. Never.”

Jehan silently takes his hand in theirs and rubs his fingers, not quite meeting Montparnasse’s gaze.

The twisting in Montparnasse’s insides doesn’t lessen. He wants to find every single person that ever told Jehan that something was wrong with them and smash their head open. What does Jehan think? That at some point he’s going to find out _something_ about them that is going to make him change his mind? He’s never going to change his mind about this. About them. Ever. But he can’t tell them that.

“You know the fourth time you came to my store?”

Jehan’s eyes fix on him questioningly.

“I was dealing with those two morons and you left an envelope behind the register?” Montparnasse prompts.

“Yes?” Jehan says with a faint smile.

Montparnasse looks into their eyes, eager to see that terrible dejection gone from their depths. “You wandered around the store, I could hear you, see you sometimes… Scurrying around, _just_ like a little bird.” He smiles at the image and then grimaces. “And those idiots just _wouldn’t_ stop talking. Going on and on and I all I could think of was that you’d leave. You’d leave without speaking to me and I’d have to wait another whole week…”

The smile has spread to Jehan’s eyes and they are holding his hand in a different way, warmer, happier.

“I thought I’d go insane,” Montparnasse grimaces. “And then you _actually_ left.”

Jehan almost laughs. “I didn’t want to be a bother to you while you were working,” they say smilingly.

Most things are a bother to Montparnasse. Most people too. But he’s always made exceptions. That isn’t new. Jehan is just the first one that is an exception to pretty much everything. Slowly, gently, he pulls on Jehan’s hands until they move towards him willingly. He leans his forehead against theirs and says with as much emphasis as he can while keeping his voice low: “ _Nothing_ about you will _ever_ be a bother to me, Jehan.”

His heart stumbles in the strangest way when their name leaves his lips, but Jehan throws their arms around his neck and pulls him so close he forgets everything else. Jehan is all happiness and eager movement and for a while they kiss each other like they both have things to say that cannot be put into words.

Montparnasse is on top of Jehan and kissing another smile off their lips when they hum like they want to say something. He pulls back, opening his eyes to see them lying underneath him, hair a gorgeous mess and mouth opening in a gasp.

“You know,” Jehan says, panting slightly. “You know what I’d like, if you don’t mind I mean—”

Montparnasse gives them a bemused look. They could ask him literally anything right now and he’d say yes.

Jehan smiles as if they’re laughing at themself and says: “I’d— I’d like you to meet my parents, like, on Skype maybe?”

Okay, he hadn’t expected that. Montparnasse sits up and runs a hand through his hair. Meeting Jehan’s parents… Why is he smiling? Jehan sits up next to him. They’re already looking so flushed he can’t really tell how nervous they are. God, they’re beautiful. “Sure,” he says, grinning slightly. “I can look presentable on camera.”

Jehan kisses him so abruptly that Montparnasse loses his balance and he ends up on top of Jehan again.

“I just—” Jehan pants, as soon as their lips part again. “—I didn’t know if you’d want to—”

Montparnasse is surprised at how much he actually _does_ want to meet them. Genuinely.

“—but they ask every time I talk about you—” Jehan laughs. “Which is a lot.”

Montparnasse grins at the sparks in their eyes. “Flattery,” he chuckles and he leans down to kiss them again. He stops. “Wait, you didn’t mean right now, did you?”

“ _Definitely_ not,” Jehan says and they drag him back in with a hand on the back of his neck.

♦♦♦

Éponine’s expression is a mix between incredulity and delight. “Jehan introduced you to their _parents_?”

“That is what I just said,” Montparnasse says, rolling his eyes. Why does he tell her these things anyway.

“So how did it go?” she asks eagerly. Her smile splits into a grin. “Did they ask you what your intentions with their child were?”

Montparnasse pulls a face. “I said hi on Skype, Ponine, it wasn’t a bloody presentation.”

Jehan’s parents, strangely, hadn’t actually asked a lot of question at all. He had done his best to be apathetic to the whole situation. (Especially since Jehan seems to trust their parents so much they tell them nearly everything, which is mildly terrifying.) But that turned out to be rather hard. Jehan’s mothers were, well, nice. Stupidly nice. Marianne was soft and lively and Geneviève (or _not_ Geneviève, Vivi, she insisted) was friendly and straightforward. Both of them had seemed ridiculously pleased to meet him, but hadn’t minded at all that he barely said a word. Jehan had talked a lot, so had Marianne. Jehan got a lot louder when talking to her. They talked a lot faster too. Montparnasse had listened to it with increasing fascination.

“What were they like?” Éponine asks curiously “Exactly like Jehan or complete opposite?” She snorts. “Do they wear all black?”

Montparnasse scoffs, but he can’t help a small smile. “No,” he says. “But neither of them dresses like Jehan.”

“No one does,” Éponine sighs. She gives him a look that is slightly more genuine than teasing. “Did you like them?”

“I guess,” Montparnasse says. He’s glad she didn’t ask if they liked _him_. Because he doesn’t know. He can usually make people like him for a while, for as long as it takes him to get something from them. But he had been prepared for an awkward conversation and at least some judgemental question, not compliments on his clothes and cheerful enquiries after their last date without any demands of personal information whatsoever.

“You _do_ like them,” she grins. “You actually do.” Éponine hums. “Well, good. I’m glad.”

Montparnasse looks at the ceiling. So is he. He supposes.

Éponine gives him one last amused (and rather smug) glance and then she finally has the decency to pull out her phone an look disinterested again. Montparnasse starts on a new seam and sews in silence, until his own phone buzzes.

**Gav** : Ep with you?

**Parnasse** : Yes

**Gav** : …keep her there? :))

Montparnasse smirks. Éponine mentioned that Gavroche is actually babysitting the little ones today. Getting paid for it too. That was Lucille’s idea. Something about responsibility of course.

**Parnasse** : Is this a favour you ask

**Gav** : :(

**Gav** : Appealing to your general sense of dishonesty?

Montparnasse nearly grins. Gavroche is coming along very nicely. He’s learning to phrase his sass so elegantly these days. Montparnasse glances at Éponine, who is smiling at her own phone. She’d be so proud. You know, if this didn’t involve her being played of course.

**Parnasse** : Got a mess to clean up hm

**Gav** : Please :(

**Parnasse** : You have an hour

Gavroche replies with a string of emoji’s and Montparnasse puts his phone aside, smiling slightly

“Get you someone that looks at you like Parnasse looks at blind seams,” Éponine says, eyes twinkling in his direction for a moment.

“Not a blind seam,” Montparnasse replies, glancing at her. “You’re thinking of zippers.”

Éponine groans. “Now you’re going to tell me what it is supposed to be, aren’t you.”

Montparnasse wasn’t going to, but now he tells her anyway. In great detail, just to see her drop her head to the table in exasperation. He’s in a good mood and not just because of Gavroche. He may not want to talk about it, but Montparnasse is actually glad he has met Jehan’s parents. It went well so why the hell should he worry about it? If he’s being honest, he’d actually go and meet them for real if Jehan asked him. Not that he’s going to bring it up, but the idea of seeing Jehan at home, seeing  them beam at their mothers in person, hear the full energy of those sudden bursts of talking. It’s a compelling image. Montparnasse likes Jehan’s dreamy calmness, but he loves to see them excited.

♦♦♦

Jehan is all excitement and Montparnasse is all confusion. The more university buildings they pass the more suspicious he gets.

“I already told you,” Jehan grins. “I’m not dragging you to a lecture. It’s too late for that anyway.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Montparnasse says.

“I could _hear_ you thinking,” they tease. Jehan grins at him. “You’re not the only one that can do surprises.”

“Clearly,” Montparnasse smiles.

Jehan is nearly pulling him along by his hand, they are so excited to get where they’re going. This is the first time they’ve come up with a date and refused to tell him what it was. Montparnasse doesn’t ask, but he is really wondering where the hell they are going. Because Jehan is looking around like they don’t want people to see them and it really is late. Late and dark.

“This way,” Jehan says, voice hushed.

Montparnasse lets them pull him towards a gate that is most definitely closed. Jehan lets go of his hand and darts into the circle of light that the lantern above the gate casts around. They light up in a flash of red hair and bright clothes and Montparnasse hangs back in the shadows a moment, just looking. Jehan turns round to see where he’s gone and shoots him a wide smile. Montparnasse grins back at them.

“What’s this?” he asks looking at the gate.

“The botanical gardens,” Jehan announces happily.

Well, credit where credit’s due, he’s certainly surprised. Montparnasse glances up at the gate. “It looks pretty closed, vögelchen,” he grins. “Are you in the mood for more climbing?”

A small, slightly smug smile appears on Jehan’s face. Without saying a word they walk up to the gate and lean forward. There’s a click and when Jehan steps back they drag the gate open behind them, just far enough to pass through. They turn around to give Montparnasse another smile and dangle a set of keys in their hands.

“Impressive,” Montparnasse grins. He slips through the gate, Jehan close behind him and watches them lock it behind them. “Don’t tell me you stole those,” he says teasingly. If they did he needs to hear about it. Every detail.

“Of course not,” Jehan says, putting the keys away and grabbing Montparnasse’s hand again. “My friend Mabeuf gave them to me. He works here.” They smile fondly. “I come here to read, or to warm up in the hothouse and he’s always there. I think he’s been here forever.”

“Doesn’t exactly make this legal though, does it?” Montparnasse chuckles.

“It’s not illegal if its friendship,” Jehan says decidedly. They squeeze Montparnasse’s hand. “Come on, the garden’s _beautiful_ in the dark.”

That Montparnasse can definitely not argue with. It is beautiful. There’s not enough light to actually see anything properly, but it’s like walking through a garden of shadows. The rustling of the leaves seems to be part of the darkness as they move through it and Jehan clearly knows this place so well they can walk freely and still know where they’re going.

“I love it here,” they sigh. “I wanted to bring you here so badly.”

They never mentioned it before though, Montparnasse wonders why. He’s not going to dwell on that though. Jehan looks so gloriously happy and carefree. The only thing he has to worry about right now is whether to hold their hand or let it go to see them dart from flowerbed to flowerbed, kneeling to say hello to their favourites. Montparnasse compromises, letting them fly off one moment and trying to catch them the next. Jehan doesn’t talk a lot, except occasionally to call a plant by their name or to tell Montparnasse what its uses are. They know much more about symbolism than about practical uses and the practical uses they _do_ know are usually of the rather sinister sort. No one has ever looked this lovely talking about the proper dosage of chervil.

“I was sure they had lemon balm here,” Jehan hums, kneeling beside the path. Their fingers tentatively touch the various plants and Montparnasse hears them inhaling deeply, searching for the scent.

He’s about to join them when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Montparnasse ignores it, but it buzzes twice more. Jehan is still searching, humming to themself, so Montparnasse turns away a little and takes his phone out to look, squinting against the glare of the screen. It’s a message from an unknown number.

**Unknown number:** Is Jehan with you

**Unknown number:** This is R

**Unknown number:** Are they?

Montparnasse frowns. He’d demand to know how the hell Grantaire got his number, but he must have gotten from either Jehan or Feuilly and at this point it really doesn’t matter. He glances at Jehan, who is still cooing at the sleeping flowers, as if they will tell them where to find the herb. Montparnasse looks back at his phone. Grantaire sounds strangely urgent. Montparnasse is slightly suspicious of that, but nevertheless he answers.

**Parnasse** : Yes

**Unknown number:** Good

**Parnasse** : ?

**Unknown number:** Nothing. Nvm

**Unknown number:** Wait

**Unknown number:** Are they ok?

Ok, now he really wants to know what the hell is going on. Montparnasse looks up from his phone. “Jehan?”

“Yes?” they say, turning round.

Silently Montparnasse hands Jehan his phone. Their eyes dart past the messages and Montparnasse sees something like guilt on their face in the shine of the blueish light.

“I turned off my phone,” Jehan mutters by way of explanation. They look up. “Can you tell him I’m fine? Or, no,” they change their mind. “Tell him I’m good.”

“Ok…” Montparnasse says, taking his phone back without his eyes leaving Jehan’s face. They don’t say anything else, so he finally glances down and sends:

**Parnasse** : Jehan says they’re good.

**Unknown number:** Ok

**Unknown number:** Good

Montparnasse puts his phone away. “Alright,” he hums. “Done.”

Jehan looks uncomfortable and gives him a strange look. “I really am fine.”

Montparnasse nods. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but they don’t have to tell him.

There is a short moment of quiet and then Jehan sighs. “It’s just…people cost energy, you know,” they say, suddenly sounding tired. “Even R sometimes…” Their eyes meet Montparnasse’s in the dark. “It was not a very nice week. I’m tired of people.” And, as if that is a natural end to that sentence, they slip their hand in Montparnasse’s again and lean their head against his shoulder.

Montparnasse presses a kiss into their hair and stays silent as they resume their way down the dark path. Maybe he’s not the only one that makes exceptions.

They wander further into the garden and Montparnasse can tell Jehan feels different now. Their excited energy has subsided and although they don’t seem uncomfortable, he does think they come across as rather tired now. Silently he lets go of their hand and offers them his arm instead. Jehan nestles their hand into the crook of his arm and leans against him as they walk on. They’re closer this way and Montparnasse feels like he can actually support them, even if it’s not needed.

“Will the hothouse be closed?” he asks gently, looking ahead into the dark.

“Yes,” Jehan says and to his satisfaction he hears a smile in their voice. “But I have the keys to that as well.”

“Perfect,” Montparnasse chuckles and he presses a kiss against the side of their head.

“This way,” Jehan smiles and something about them seems lighter already.

They walk towards a faint glow on the other side of the garden, but neither of them feel the need to hurry and Montparnasse slows down whenever Jehan moves their head towards a familiar spot in the dark.

He wasn’t going to ask, but Montparnasse still can’t help saying, as neutrally as possible: “Did anything specific happen this week?” They hadn’t mentioned anything happening at the time… Not that they are required to, but somehow Montparnasse had expected that they would. Or hoped they would.

Jehan makes an uncertain sound and Montparnasse feels a pang of dissatisfaction. If something happened… If someone _did_ something… He narrows his eyes at the dark for a moment.

“Look,” Jehan says softly.

Montparnasse looks ahead. The hothouse radiates a soft from the warming lamps inside. It looks like a haven against the cold and the dark and Jehan moves towards it like it is. Only when they’ve nearly reached the door and Jehan rummages around for their keys, does Montparnasse see the roses growing against the outside wall. He smiles. That is perfect.

While Jehan goes to unlock the door, Montparnasse takes out his pocket knife. He stopped carrying switchblades a long time ago, but this he still has his old Opinel with him more often than not. One of the roses lights up pale in the vague glow from behind the glass. Montparnasse gently touches the white petals and when it stays intact he carefully cuts through the stem.

“What are you doing?” Jehan asks, turning around after having got the door open.

Montparnasse hums instead of answering. Sliding his fingers down the stem bit by bit he cuts off every thorn he finds. When he’s done Jehan is standing right in front of him, watching him work with big, silent eyes. Montparnasse closes his knife with a click and slips it back into his pocket. He looks at Jehan, whose hair is even more copper in this warm light.

“May I?” he asks, with just a touch of unnecessary gallantry.

Jehan turns their head to the side, a smile playing round their lips and Montparnasse brushes their hair behind their ear. With careful, gentle movements he slides the rose behind Jehan’s ear. It is right where the paper rose had been the day he met them and it is just as soft and white against their hair and skin.

“Now before you scold me for stealing,” he says smoothly, brushing his fingers past Jehan’s cheek as he retracts his hand. “Clearly, that rose was meant to be worn by you. So it’s not really stealing.”

There is just enough light to see Jehan blush. “Come on,” they say, almost laughing and they pull Montparnasse into the hothouse by his arm.

It’s a little too humid to suit Montparnasse’s taste, this isn’t going to be good for his hair, but Jehan grows more lively again so he doesn’t care. Between stolen roses and warm air they lose the lingering soberness that hung over them before and after a joking argument about what is and isn’t a palm tree, they say rather suddenly:

“Nothing really happened this week. It was just stupid silly stuff.”

“Ok,” Montparnasse nods, putting an arm around their waist as they look up at the not-palm tree.

Jehan sighs. “I just really needed this, tonight, you.”

Montparnasse doesn’t answer that, but he’s smiling. Those are things he can provide. Jehan can have as much of that as they want.

When they finally feel like leaving, Jehan turns their phone back on – there are a _lot_ of messages – and pulls Montparnasse in for a selfie on the doorstep of the hothouse. It’s a badly lit picture. They’re both half in shadows half in backlit glow, but Montparnasse is smirking contentedly and there is light glinting in Jehan’s eyes beside the curled petals of the rose.

“I definitely want to keep that one,” Jehan says happily, putting the picture in the group chat they share with their friends (Montparnasse has resigned himself to that happening by now.)

“It won’t print well,” Montparnasse observes. “Too dark.”

“I like it,” Jehan says defiantly. “It’s going on my wall and you won’t stop me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Montparnasse grins.

Jehan hums happily and makes an exasperated sound of amusement as they turn their phone to silent. “They like the picture,” they say with a chuckle.

Montparnasse gives a smirking scoff. “They better.”

Their voices are soft and cheerful as they walk back and Montparnasse takes care to remember the route. This won’t be the last time they’ll be here. At least not if he has any say in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The folk song Jehan and Montparnasse are listening to is ‘the unquiet grave’, one of my personal favourites. I've always wanted to use it in a story.
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3
> 
> PS. In case they slipped some readers by, I've written some short pieces showing aspects of this story from other character's perspectives. They are collected in the work [Half Truths](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14012736/chapters/32270301).


	13. Montparnasse doesn’t worry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: relatively high angst levels compared to the rest of the story, references to criminal activity, anxiety, stress, difficult family situations.
> 
> But it’ll be worth it, cross my heart.

“Anyway, Mardi could have kicked both their asses, so who cares.”

Éponine pauses her story to dump more sauce on her food. She gets nostalgic for terrible fast food sometimes and Montparnasse pretends he indulges her with great personal sacrifice. In truth he doesn’t mind at all. This whole place with its plastic counter and aluminium chairs smells like the comforts of the past.

“Been on any more dates lately?” he asks, smirking slightly.

Éponine scoffs. After a short silence she says: “I’ve actually been hanging out with Marius and Cosette a lot.”

Montparnasse grimaces. “Awkward.”

“It’s not actually,” Éponine says with surprising sincerity. “It’s nice… Cosette’s…nice. And Marius— It’s different between us now.” She gestures above her food. “Like, better. Much better.”

Montparnasse decides not to comment on that. He supposes most things would be better than pining for Marius Pontmercy, but he can’t say being friends with him and his girlfriend sounds like much of an improvement to him.

“So,” Éponine says, decidedly enough to indicate a firm change of subject. “Speaking of dates. How are things with Jehan?”

“Good,” Montparnasse nods.

Éponine gives him a blank look. Montparnasse looks back and takes a bite of his own food.

“I could just ask them for details, you know,” she threatens.

“Be my guest,” Montparnasse smirks. Just because he’s in a relationship now doesn’t mean he has to start giving minute updates on how he’s feeling for fuck’s sake.

Éponine sighs and shakes her head. For a moment she is silent and then she shakes her head again. “No, you know what,” she says. “You’re being weird about this. I can _tell_ you’re happy, so why don’t you talk about them?”

Montparnasse rolls his eyes at her. “I just said things were good. What, you want to play twenty questions?”

“You used to talk about them more,” Éponine points out accusingly.

“Well, take my silence as a sign of eternal fucking devotion or something,” he grunts. “Why don’t you talk about your weird emotional threesome some more.”

Éponine’s face burns red, something that rarely happens and she actually shuts her mouth. After defiant moment of silence she starts again, however, with: “Now you mention it, Cosette told me that you actually came to a movie night.”

Montparnasse shrugs. He has no reason to deny that. Bossuet and Joly – who he has learned to tell apart and address separately now – no matter how annoyingly cheerful, are still much easier to deal with than Enjolras and Combeferre. It had just been them, Grantaire, Cosette and Jehan of course. Plus a girl he hadn’t met before called Musichetta. And Montparnasse is not about to admit it to Éponine, but he actually kind of likes Musichetta. She’s bossy, but well-dressed and surprisingly no-nonsense. He decides to put that down to the fact that she isn’t a damn student like the rest of them. He smiles. That had been a great night actually. They had watched some weird fantasy movie about a magic labyrinth – good costumes, Montparnasse has to admit – and although Jehan’s eyes had hardly left the screen while it was on, they were _very_ affectionate afterwards.

“Look at you smiling,” Éponine says triumphantly. “Smiling at the thought of your _sweetheart_.” She wipes her hands on a napkin. “You’re disgusting,” she crows merrily.

Montparnasse gives her an unimpressed look and continues eating. At least now she’s got what she wants she’ll leave him be.

Or so he thought.

“Tell me,” she quips. “How annoyed are the guys with you two?”

Montparnasse chews in silence.

Éponine’s face clouds over. “They still haven’t met them?”

Not this again.

“The _fuck_ , Parnasse,” Éponine says in dismay. “You’ve met their damn parents, but you won’t introduce them to your friends? Do the guys even know?”

“They know,” he says indifferently. Neither Babet nor Gueulemer have said anything, but since Claquesous said something he’s made an effort to find out and he’s sure they do know. They just haven’t mentioned it because _they_ know when to keep their damn mouths shut.

Éponine gives him a dissatisfied look. “But you haven’t introduced them to Jehan.”

He doesn’t answer that. It wasn’t her business before and it isn’t her business now.

“Do they even come over to yours still?” she demands to know.

He gives her another shrug. Jehan does come over now and again. They live in student housing after all, his place has a lot more privacy. But when they do, Montparnasse plans for it beforehand. No matter how bohemian artistic Babet and Claquesous like to be, they still have their routines, Montparnasse knows when he’s not likely to run into them.

“That’s kind of bullshit, Parnasse,” Éponine says bluntly.

Montparnasse raises an eyebrow at her. “Jehan doesn’t mind and they’re the only one that has a say in this, so maybe keep your damn nose out.”

“How do you know they don’t mind,” she says sharply.

“They _are_ capable of talking you know,” he snarks. Jehan does ask about his friends from time to time. And he has told them things. Not much, but still. They know their names, a little bit about what they do…now. Why would they need to know more?

“Just because Jehan has the patience of a damn saint doesn’t make you any less of a dick,” Éponine tells him, taking a rather aggressive bite of food.

Montparnasse gives her another sarcastic look and pulls out his phone. Just as she’s taken another bite he takes a picture of her and before she can snatch the phone from his hand he sends it to Jehan. It’s a _terrible_ picture, but Jehan’s response is endearingly prompt and sweet.

 **Jehan** : Hi Éponine! <3

“There,” he grins. “Who says I don’t share my friends with Jehan?”

Éponine swallows her food and treats him liberally to some of the more colourful insults she reserves for when they are alone, but she begrudgingly lets the subject drop. Montparnasse teases her on other subjects until the disapproving scowl leaves her face. She’s not going to make him feel guilty for something she has nothing to do with. This works for him, Jehan doesn’t mind, so why the fuck would he change anything?

♦♦♦

Honestly, what good is a damn car if all you do is get stuck in bloody traffic?

Montparnasse taps his fingers on the steering wheel and glares out of the window. He’s going to stare himself blind on the taillights of the idiot in front of him, crawling forward like a snail. Staring purposelessly at the dark rows of parked cars and the few people walking beyond them, his eyes catch a familiar sight and Montparnasse feels an unpleasant jolt down his spine. Under the orange light of a streetlight Montparnasse can see two people he knows all too well. That wouldn’t be important, except there’s a third figure with them. The third is Brujon.

With an abruptness that makes the driver behind him blast their horn Montparnasse pulls over. Swearing sharply under his breath he rolls the window down, puts his fingers to his lips and gives out a single sharp whistle. Three faces turn in his direction and Brujon’s lights up with a grin. He says something to the others, who slink back a bit, and runs up to the car. He’s beaming like a damn child.

“Hey, man! What—”

“The fuck are you doing with Zar and Finn?” Montparnasse demands.

“Just talking,” Brujon grins. “Maybe they have a job for me.”

Montparnasse feels cold all of a sudden. “Get in,” he orders.

“What?” Brujon laughs. “But I—”

“ _Get. In._ ” There’s a reason Montparnasse still has a reputation. It has something to do with the fact that back when they roamed the streets, Gueulemer, Claquesous and Babet always used to walk behind him or beside him, but never in front.

Brujon shuts his mouth and gets into the passenger seat.

Without saying another word Montparnasse drives off. He cuts straight through the traffic jam and makes an illegal U-turn to where the street is actually free to fucking drive in. It doesn’t matter where they’re going as long as they go. When Montparnasse is satisfied he has put enough distance between them and two faces he never wants to see again, he says curtly:

“ _Don’t_ fucking go back there, you hear me?”

Brujon opens his mouth defensively. “Wh—”

“There’s a _difference_ between what you do and what they do,” Montparnasse snaps. “Don’t cross that line.”

Like the bloody child he is, Brujon crosses his arms. “They’re only doing what you used to do.”

By now they’re in a quiet backstreet and Montparnasse breaks with enough force to make Brujon, who hasn’t bothered fastening his seatbelt, jolt forward and nearly slam his head into the dashboard.

“You didn’t know me when I did that,” Montparnasse barks. It isn’t even true. He _never_ went that far. But that won’t help him now. Brujon wouldn’t believe him anyway.

“People at the club do!” Brujon retorts. “And Sous and B—”

“Ever wonder why we _don’t_ do that stuff anymore?” Montparnasse interrupts him venomously. “Brujon, I work in a fucking _shop_.”

Brujon scoffs. “Yeah, but—”

“Shut your mouth.” Montparnasse feels sick. The angry indignation on Brujon’s face is like looking into a goddamn mirror three years in the past. And _he_ got lucky. Brujon might not.

“We’re going home, Brujon,” Montparnasse grunts. “ _Your_ home.”

“Eh, _no?_ ” Brujon splutters.

“Yes, we are,” Montparnasse snaps. “And I’m gonna meet your fucking parents. And as many of your ten thousand siblings as I can.”

Brujon stares at him. “Why?”

“So when I have to go over there one day to tell them that you’re in jail, or hospital or the fucking morgue I won’t have to deliver that news as a complete stranger.”

Brujon’s eyes are wide and shocked for a moment and then he abruptly looks away. They sit in the car in silence. Brujon staring at the dashboard, Montparnasse staring at him.

He recognizes that look. He remembers being the damn _embodiment_ of that look. His blood is thumping in his ears. He doesn’t want to be a bloody role model. He doesn’t want to be here. He’ll be _damned_ if he lets Brujon fuck himself over like this.

Brujon’s shoulder’s sag and Montparnasse breathes. The tension in the car changes just a fraction. Montparnasse looks away from him and stares at the dark outside the car. Come to think of it, he doesn’t know exactly where Brujon lives.

“So,” he says coolly. “You going to give me your address?”

He sees Brujon move from the corner of his eye and glances at him.

Brujon looks sullen. “Can I drive?” he asks, his face turned towards Montparnasse, but his eyes not meeting his.

Montparnasse gives half a nod. “Sure.” It’s still compliance. That’s good enough for him. He gets out of the car and they switch places. If he’s being honest Montparnasse prefers being driven to driving anyway.

Brujon adjust the seat and mirrors in a matter of seconds and turns onto the road effortlessly. Montparnasse leans back in his seat and watches him. He knows Brujon put absolutely all his money into earning his licence as soon as he turned eighteen.

“Why are you so into cars anyway?” he ask. The silence in the car is suffocating, it needs to go.

“Dunno,” Brujon mutters, eyes on the road.

“What do you like about them?” Montparnasse prompts. He sounds like a fucking school counsellor. But he has to say something. _Brujon_ has to say something.

There’s a very long silence and then finally Brujon says: “I don’t like cars,” he says. “I like driving.”

Another silence. Montparnasse doesn’t break it. He’s not the one with the damn problem here.

Brujon makes a bitter noise at the back of his throat. “Dad told me I should be a mechanic.” He sniffs. “I don’t want to _make_ cars. Sounds fucking annoying…”

“Brujon,” Montparnasse says. “You are aware that there is an entire industry that revolves around driving cars right?”

“You don’t have to talk to me like I’m an idiot,” Brujon bites, knuckles turning white on the steering wheel for a moment.

“Yes I do,” Montparnasse says flatly. “Because you are. You’re a fucking idiot, Brujon.” He watches how Brujon turns a tight corner. “An idiot that can drive a hell of a lot better than I can.”

Brujon grunts, but there’s something like pride on his face. There’s another long silence, until Brujon finally says:

“Getting a taxi licence is fucking expensive.”

Montparnasse doesn’t doubt that.

“And I’m too young,” Brujon says bitterly.

Also a fair point. That’s the thing about the ‘easy way out’. It doesn’t exist. There’s hard and there’s fucking impossible.

Neither Brujon nor Montparnasse say anything for a while.

“You like your store right?” Brujon asks finally.

“Sure,” Montparnasse says evenly.

Brujon doesn’t respond and the rest of the drive neither of them talk.

♦

Whatever Montparnasse had prepared himself for, he isn’t prepared for Brujon’s home. The noise hits him as soon as Brujon opens the backdoor. They walk straight into the kitchen, which seems downright crowded. Maybe, if they were all forced to sit down, Montparnasse would be able to ascertain there are no more than six children present. But since they all seem to be moving in several direction at once that is out of the question and it feels like there are at least twelve.

Two of the children flock to Brujon immediately, pulling on his sleeves and complaining with wide open mouths. Montparnasse stands back and stares as Brujon makes his way through the kitchen, approaching some of the kids himself and letting others swarm around him. They are all incredibly touchy with each other. There’s shoving and pushing, but Montparnasse sees four of the little ones hug Brujon from behind. Just like Brujon does with him despite having been told a million times to knock it off. They all get their hair ruffled roughly in return.

Montparnasse follows Brujon’s progress with his eyes and only now does he notice the woman at the other end of the room. Brujon taps her on the shoulder and she turns around. “Oh, Luca, sweetie, you’re home.” She bends over and scoops up a small child that was clinging to her knees. “Hold Tam for me, will you.”

Brujon puts the little girl on his hip without a word, but clears his throat and says:

“Ma, there’s—”

His mother turns towards Montparnasse before he’s even finished speaking. “Oh, hello,” she says, surprised. She looks tired – no fucking wonder – but she smiles warmly in greeting.

“Hi,” he nods. “Montparnasse.”

Immediately there is a spark of recognition on her face. “You’re Parnasse?” she smiles. “Luca talks about you a lot.”

Montparnasse nods again, because he doesn’t know what to say. Brujon’s siblings are mostly ignoring him, apart from a few curious looks. Clearly they have more important things to do. Probably involving more noise.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Brujon’s mother invites readily. “There’s always room for one more.”

That must either be a joke or a lie, but Montparnasse nods all the same. “Thanks,” he manages.

Brujon, seemingly unbothered any of this, carries his little sister to the table and plants her in a high chair. Several of the larger kids run to set the table, without being asked.

Montparnasse doesn’t get the chance to speak even two words to Brujon. He’s never been in a room with this many kids, his foster parents only took in teenagers. His head aches with the noise and he desperately wants to get out of there, but he stays put. He stays and watches.

The kitchen door opens again and a short man with greying hair appears. He is greeted with a chorus of yells and his hands ruffle through a great deal of dark hair before he reaches the sink and kisses his wife on the cheek.

“Well then, at the table everyone!” Brujon’s mother orders and astonishingly, everyone sits down.

Compared to a moment ago it is almost quiet and Montparnasse can count now. Seven children, including Brujon, and he knows there is at least one more not present. An older sister. Fucking hell.

Montparnasse is silent while they eat, but he’s the only one. There is a constant stream of chatter coming from nearly every other mouth. Brujon and one of the younger girls are the only ones that do not talk a lot. What Brujon does do is prevent his youngest brother from kicking the high chair, giving his mother whatever she asks him to pass and letting one of his sisters swap her peas for his carrots while their parents aren’t looking.

M. and Mme Brujon speak to their children more than to each other. They smile at each other a lot, but in between bites they are almost ceaselessly questioning, correcting, or praising their children. Both of them ask Brujon a couple of questions, about school, about Montparnasse, about something that happened last week. Brujon answers them all readily and Montparnasse knows for a fact every single answer is a half-truth only. Brujon’s parents don’t seem to notice.

When the meal is over Brujon slips out of his chair and gives a nod towards an open door. Montparnasse follows him, leaving the crowd of siblings behind. He follows Brujon through a messy living room, into a hallway and straight out of the front door. Brujon closes the door behind them and Montparnasse inhales the silence.

Brujon leans back against the wall of the house and Montparnasse does the same.

“Shit man,” Montparnasse hums after a while. “I guess now we know where you get your energy.”

Brujon snorts and looks into the distance, kicking his heels against the wall.

If Montparnasse thought he had something to say before, he’s lost the will by now. His ears are still ringing. Well, he got Brujon home. And he made his point earlier. That’s the main thing. He reaches for his cigarettes but changes his mind.

“What’s that like when Faunt visits?” he asks, just to have something to say.

A grin flashes across Brujon’s face. “They all _love_ them.”

Montparnasse shakes his head. “Jesus.”

Brujon laughs. It sounds genuine and unconcerned. And why shouldn’t it. This is his family, his _life_.

“Well, tell your parents thanks, or something,” Montparnasse hums.

Brujon nods.

Montparnasse pushes away from the wall and turns around. He plants a hand on Brujon’s shoulder and narrows his eyes. “Come hang out with us if you’re bored,” he says. “Stop wasting your time with jerks like Finn.”

“Yeah, okay,” Brujon mutters.

Montparnasse gives him a friendly push against the side of his head and turns towards the car. Brujon watches him get in and gives an upward nod in response to his parting glance through the window. Montparnasse drives off, glancing in the rear-view to see Brujon go back inside just before he turns the corner.

As he makes his way back to more familiar streets Montparnasse begins to feel like he’s just taken a punch to the gut. He lights a cigarette, but it doesn’t help. After a while he pulls over and sits in the dark, just staring at the dirt on the windscreen. Brujon’s a smart kid. He’s making it through school alright. Sure, he got held back a grade, but he’s hardly lifting a finger now and still doing fine. But he’s going to graduate soon and then what? He thinks of Éponine, beaming with pride at Azelma.

Azelma is going to be fine. Brujon might not be.

And what the fuck can be done about it. Next to bloody nothing. That’s just the way the world works isn’t it. Things slip through the cracks. _People_ slip through the cracks. And sometimes they fall and they never come back out and there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about it. Even if you can see it coming. From miles off.

Montparnasse flicks his cigarette butt out of the window with a resentful hiss and claws a hand through his hair. His shoulders ache. He wants to punch something. He wants— He wants—

His phone is in his hand before he realizes he’s even taken it out. Montparnasse waits for it to ring with a sickening, hollow feeling in his stomach.

“Parnasse?”

Two damn syllables spoken in Jehan’s voice and he already feels some of the tension draining from his body. “Yeah, it’s me,” he says, sounding a lot hoarser than he had expected. “Are you home?”

“Yes,” Jehan’s voice answers concernedly. “Did something happen?”

“No,” Montparnasse lies. “I just…can I come over?”

“Of course.”

By the time he arrives at Jehan’s building Montparnasse already regrets going there. He’s in no state to see Jehan. They can’t help with any of this and he really doesn’t want them to see him this way. Except he wants to see them. So bad. He doesn’t have time to change his mind anyway, because the front door opens and Jehan appears, pyjama pants sticking out from under their teal coat. Montparnasse gets out of the car and as soon as he does, his legs seem to move on their own accord. Before he knows it he has wrapped his arms around Jehan and dropped his head down to their shoulder. They are standing as tall as they can and hold him very tightly for a moment. Instead of asking what’s the matter they silently pull him inside and Montparnasse lets them, barely remembering to lock the car. He follows them up the stairs and all the way to their room without saying a word.

“I’ve got tea,” Jehan says gently when they’ve closed the door. “You want some?”

Montparnasse shakes his head. He feels strange being here. It’s calming, but it feels wrong. He knows it’s wrong. He sits down on the edge of Jehan’s bed and does his best to push the nauseating anger out of the way. He can’t get angry while Jehan is with him.

“Shit night?” Jehan mutters and they sit down beside him. They don’t sit close enough to touch him, but close enough for Montparnasse to feel them.

He tries to say something, but shakes his head instead. He shouldn’t have come here. But he can’t run out now. Jehan will worry. He mustn’t make Jehan worry. He takes in a breath and turns towards them. Montparnasse wants to smile at them and say he’s fine, what he does instead is freeze in the face of  the soft concern in  their eyes. He looks away again and involuntarily he slumps forward, leaning his elbows on his legs and digging his nails into the palms of his hands.

“There’s this kid I know,” he mutters, regretting the words even as he is speaking them, but continuing all the same. “I found him on the street talking to some people that do shit that’s way over his head. Break-ins, robberies, probably worse.”

Jehan sits quietly beside him and doesn’t say a word.

Montparnasse swallows, but now it seems he can’t stop talking. “So I told him to stay the fuck away from them and I brought him home but—” He raises his head abruptly and looks at Jehan.

Their face is not expressionless, but very hard to read.

“His parents are not like mine,” Montparnasse blurts out. “They _care_. Actually care. They want him to do well. They just don’t know how to fucking talk to him and they’re too damn busy to see what’s going on—”

Jehan looks at him silently.

“And he’s smart, Jehan,” Montparnasse groans. “Too smart. But he hates school cause who the fuck doesn’t. And what the hell is he going to do when he gets out of school?” He shuts his mouth, startled by the tone of his own voice. He’s actually shaking by now.

Very cautiously, as if they’re afraid of intruding on his thoughts Jehan asks: “What does he do now? Besides school?”

“Deals at a club,” Montparnasse says, his voice level and his eyes fixed on a random point on the floor.

“Oh.” It sounds neutral, but it’s not quite neutral. There’s an undertone that makes Montparnasse’s stomach churn and a vicious sting inside his insides makes him add:

“Same as I used to do.”

“Yes,” Jehan says softly.

Montparnasse looks at them again and no, their face is free from judgement. They’re pale, but there’s nothing but concern in their eyes. Concern and something soft and earnest that Montparnasse can’t deal with right now. He drops his head down to his hands and rubs at his forehead. “He wants to be like me, Jehan,” he grunts. “Like _me_.” He presses his palms against his eyes until spots of light dance in the darkness. There is a very light touch on his back and involuntarily he lets his shoulders sag a little. Jehan settles their hand between his shoulder blades and rubs gently up and down with their thumb. Montparnasse lifts his head just a little and remembers to breathe.

“What’s his name?” Jehan asks quietly.

“Brujon,” Montparnasse mutters.

Jehan hums the name softly to themself and come to sit a little closer. In an impulse Montparnasse reaches out and grabs their other hand.

“How’d you meet him?” they ask with gentle curiosity.

Montparnasse shakes his head vaguely. “He was just…around,” he says. “On the street— Later at the club…” He doesn’t even really remember when exactly he met Brujon. Can’t even recall whether it was Claquesous that met Fauntleroy first or Brujon that started following him around. It’s only a couple years ago, why the hell doesn’t he remember?

“Do you think he listened to you?” Jehan breaks the silence after a while.

How is he supposed to know that? “I don’t fucking know,” he mutters. “Maybe.” Hopefully.

Jehan leans their chin against his shoulder and stops rubbing his back. They wrap their arm around him instead. “You’re a good friend, Parnasse.”

A good friend. A fat lot of good that does. But he can’t expect Jehan to understand. He shouldn’t have told them any of this. He should have just told them he had a bad day and left it at that. Jehan wouldn’t have pried, they never do. That would have been better than this. Because now Jehan is being supportive and understanding even though they can’t _possibly_ understand. Not just because they can’t, but because Montparnasse can’t even begin to explain it. And he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to drag this word, his world, into Jehan’s. Because he knows what will happen next. They won’t fit together and things will break. And he doesn’t want that. Not now. Not now he’s found Jehan. He doesn’t want any of this. Doesn’t want to be thinking this. But it’s the fucking truth. His world, Brujon’s world, is not the same as Jehan’s. He’s doing a good job of pretending it is, but it isn’t.

“You should see him drive,” he talks straight through his own thoughts.

“Brujon?” Jehan says.

Montparnasse nods.

“He likes driving?”

“Yeah,” Montparnasse says, drawing himself upright. “And he’s good at it. I mean, I’d seen him drive before, he just never said— Not that I asked.” He gives Jehan a weary look. “This is the first time he talked about it at all. But he said taxi licences are expensive to get— He’s only just turned eighteen.”

Jehan raises their head. “You know…” they say cautiously. “There are companies that work with students as drivers… I think they pay your training and licence for you if you work for them for a certain amount of time.”

Montparnasse looks at them. He’s never heard of that before, but then he’s never been interested before. Surely if such a thin existed Brujon would know, though. Then again. “Is it a condition that you’re a student?” he asks. If so, it’s useless.

“I don’t know,” Jehan says honestly. “But I can’t think why it would be… Unless it’s an insurance thing. I’ll ask Bahorel. He used to do that for a while. I think that’s how he failed his second year of law school.”

Montparnasse grimaces. But still, it sounds… “What sort of work was that then?”

“All sorts,” Jehan answers. “I heard him talk about business men, but also people that needed to go to and from hospital or something like it. But I didn’t know him while he was doing it, I just know the stories. Shall I ask him? Everything is easier if you know someone…”

If you know someone… Montparnasse gives Jehan a doubtful look. Well, It can’t hurt. Probably won’t help either, but it can’t hurt. “Sure,” he says.

“Do the others know about it?” Jehan asks, squeezing his hand. “Your friends I mean. Claquesous and-?”

Montparnasse makes a vague noise. “I didn’t know this was going on before tonight,” he says. “They know him too, if that’s what you mean.” He hesitates, but what does it matter what he does and does not tell Jehan? He’s in too deep anyway. So he talks about Claquesous’ music a bit, Babet’s gaffer work, how in a way they all work at the club. Or used to, in different fashions.

Jehan listens, smiling slightly, but not really saying anything. Eventually he actually ends up talking about Brujon’s family. He can still hear the damn noise ringing in his ears. But he can also see Brujon’s smile.

“Parnasse?”

Montparnasse lifts his head. How long has he been staring at the wall? “Sorry,” he says, clearing his throat. “Zoned out there for a second.”

“That’s okay, I’m pretty tired myself,” Jehan smiles gently.

Fuck, yeah. Montparnasse glances at his watch. It’s nearly twelve. “Right,” he sighs. “I should—”

“Do you want to stay?” Jehan interrupts him. Their voice is still gentle, but there’s a firm edge to it now. This isn’t just an idle invitation. It’s a request.

But the car is technically Gueulemer’s and honestly, sleep is the least appealing thing in the world right now. Jehan helped him more than Montparnasse could have thought possible, but what he needs is distraction, not quiet and darkness. He forms his lips into a smile. “I’d love to, vögelchen,” he says, reaching out to touch their chin. “But I have to get the car back home.”

A dissatisfied look flits across Jehan’s face for just a moment. “Okay,” they mutter.

Montparnasse gets to his feet and so do they. They watch him while he gathers his stuff and pats his pockets to check that he hasn’t forgotten anything.

“I hate this,” Jehan says suddenly.

Montparnasse looks at them abruptly, but they don’t look angry. “Hate what?” he asks uncertainly.

“You leaving when you’re not okay,” Jehan says. The dissatisfied look is back, it has settled in their eyes.

“I’m fine, Jehan,” Montparnasse says, but he quickly corrects: “Or I will be.”

Jehan heaves a sigh and opens their arms. Obediently Montparnasse let’s himself be hugged. He wraps his arms around Jehan in return, but Jehan is definitely hugging him. For a moment. Then they nestle their head against his shoulder and make themself small against him. Montparnasse closes his eyes and holds them a little tighter. He sighs. He doesn’t want to go.

“You sure you want to leave?” Jehan mutters into his shirt.

Montparnasse grunts. They’re doing this on purpose, he realizes a little too late. He should have expected this.

“Please stay?” Jehan mutters and by now Montparnasse really doesn’t know anymore whether they’re insisting on his account or their own. It doesn’t matter really. He doesn’t want to say no to Jehan either way. Without letting go of them he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He sends a text to Gueulemer.

 **Parnasse** : Need the car tomorrow?

If he’s still awake Gueulemer will answer immediately. He’s like that, he either answers right away or not at all.

His phone buzzes.

 **Gueul** : Can do without

 **Parnasse** : Thanks

 **Gueul** : np

He drops his phone on the bed. “Yeah,” he sighs, burying his face in Jehan’s hair. “I’ll stay.”

♦

About half an hour later Montparnasse lies with Jehan in his arms, staring at the dark. Jehan’s breathing is deep and regular, but that doesn’t mean they’re asleep. For all he knows they’re lying awake too. Wondering about the things Montparnasse has told them. Or the many things they must know he _hasn’t_ told them.

Suddenly Jehan stirs. So they are awake, then. Montparnasse loosens his grip and they turn around in his arms. It’s too dark to see their face, but Montparnasse knows it’s right in front of his and suddenly he feels Jehan’s lips against his forehead. Montparnasse can’t remember ever being kissed there. By anyone.

Instead of saying something when Jehan pulls away, Montparnasse lowers his head until it rests against theirs. One of Jehan’s arms wraps around him, hand resting between his shoulder blades, and they hold him like that for a while. Montparnasse still doesn’t know what to say, but the need to say something seems to have passed. There’s a strange quiet in his head where the muddle of thoughts was before. When Jehan moves again they silently nudge him until he turns around. Jehan takes the position Montparnasse held before, wrapping themself around him from behind. They’re not tall enough to hug him properly around the waist when their heads are on the same level, so their left arm rests across his chest. Their right arm must be curled up under their pillow, because Montparnasse can’t feel it when he leans his head back. Jehan nuzzles the back of his head, before laying their own head down on the pillow they are now almost sharing. Slowly Montparnasse relaxes his back and shoulders. He’s exhausted, but he can’t feel bad right now. Not while Jehan is holding him like this. No, right now he doesn’t feel bad at all. Right now it feels like none of it matters. Like he doesn’t have to do a thing to earn or defend this spot in Jehan’s arms and…he can’t put this feeling into words but he wants to. He really does. Except he doesn’t. Because the only word that comes to mind he is definitely not saying out loud. So he just lies there, listening to Jehan’s breathing, letting those feelings slowly drive the tension from his limbs. After he doesn’t know how long his mind begins to grow foggy. Sleep is finally starting to seem like a good idea again.

Just before he drifts off, Jehan starts talking. It doesn’t sound like they are directly addressing him though, the rise and fall of their voice is too melodic. They’re reciting. Montparnasse is too tired to understand the words, just like he’s too tired to open his eyes or react, but he enjoys the sound of Jehan’s voice. He always does.

_“For wele or woo I wyll not fle  
To love that hart that lovyth me,”_

Jehan’s voice is so quiet he can hardly hear and some of the vowels sound so strange Montparnasse begins to doubt if it is even English.

_“That hart my hart hath in suche grace  
That of too hartes one hart make we,”_

He wonders how Jehan’s lips can make those sounds and how they can sound rough and soft at the same time.

_“That hart hath brought my hart in case  
To love that hart that lovyth me…”_

It’s his last thought before he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have feelings about Brujon, and about sharing distress, does it show?
> 
> The Medieval poem used (in part, it's much longer) can be found [here](http://aclerkofoxford.blogspot.nl/2014/06/a-medieval-love-poem-heart-that-loveth.html).
> 
> A slightly more readable (modern) version of the quoted lines would be:
> 
> _For good or bad I will not flee  
>  To love the heart that loveth me.  
> The heart my heart has in such grace  
> That of two hearts one heart make we;  
> That heart has brought my heart in case  
> To love the heart that loveth me._
> 
> In other words: Jehan knows what’s up~


	14. Montparnasse forgets the past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: a bit of aftermath for the previous chapter, some nasty allusions to Montparnasse’s past, a mention of islamophobia and a dash of anxiety, before I can spin fluff and romance again.

“Shit, man,” Babet mutters, looking at his feet.

“Yeah,” Montparnasse says flatly and Gueulemer and Claquesous give no verbal response at all.

They’re all sitting out front on the steps of Maison Minette, smoking and having a drink. This seemed as good a time as any to have unpleasant conversations.

“I’ll talk to Faunt,” Claquesous says eventually. “Brujon tells them everything.”

“Faunt’s worse than Brujon,” Montparnasse replies snidely. Fauntleroy has a nasty temper. When they dropped out of college Montparnasse had halfway expected them to just disappear. That might have happened actually, if their uncle hadn’t taken them in to give them some distance from their eternally hovering parents.

“They’re not as fucking stupid though,” Claquesous bites, glaring from behind his glass.

Montparnasse takes a drag. He supposes Claquesous does have a point there.

“Finn’s as bad as fucking Thénardier,” Babet mutters, prodding fruitlessly at the bits of moss growing between the stones of the step he’s sitting on. “Biz’s not much better.”

There’s a tense silence. Montparnasse knows they are. That’s the whole point. It means they’re going to end up in prison or on the bad side of someone even worse than them. Montparnasse knows that particular tune and it’s not worth singing. The risks seem worth the gains for a while, but that shit catches up with you eventually.

“It’s just them then,” Gueulemer says suddenly.

“Just what,” Montparnasse asks, looking over to where Gueulemer is sitting on the lowest step, his broad frame hunched and tense.

“Just the two of them,” he clarifies. “Finistère and Bizarro.”

“I don’t fucking know,” Montparnasse grunts. He has no way of knowing really. Brujon didn’t mention anyone else, but there is no reason for him to know exactly how their business is run.

“If it’s just them,” Gueulemer hums, taking a dangerously light tone. “And they won’t stop bothering him—”

“This doesn’t need solving with your damn fists, Gueul,” Montparnasse says sharply. He can feel Babet and Claquesous glancing at him. It’s been a while since he used that voice on any of them.

“Brujon’s one of _us_ ,” Gueulemer says darkly and the look in his eyes is more than slightly disconcerting.

Montparnasse looks straight back at him. “Yes,” he says firmly. “So we’ll keep an eye on him.” He hold's Gueulemer's gaze, waiting for an answer. “Ok?”

The lines around Gueulemer’s dark eyes loosen just a little. “Ok,” he says and he looks down to flick the ash off his cigarette.

Babet and Claquesous relax too and Montparnasse reaches for his drink. Between them they’ll hopefully be able to keep a close enough eye on Brujon to keep him out of trouble. For now.

“Doesn’t he want to do what you do?” Gueulemer asks, frowning slightly.

Claquesous and Babet both shake their heads and Montparnasse agrees. Brujon is always ready to give Babet a hand and he likes music, even writes songs he won’t let anyone hear, but he’s not a performer.

“Don’t know if he’s proper interested in anything,” Claquesous mutters. “Not like Faunt and their blog.”

Montparnasse makes a scoffing sound. Fauntleroy and their damn fashion blog.

“You only refuse to check it out because _they_ refuse to feature you,” Claquesous snarks. A spark jumps into his eyes. “And they must do that with good reason. They’re good. Want to do that stuff for a living.”

“And you call Brujon stupid,” Montparnasse sneers.

Claquesous snarls, but Babet interrupts loudly:

“You lot sound like parents competing about their damn kids.”

That shuts them both up and Gueulemer lets out a laugh while Babet mocks them some more before abruptly changing the subject.

Montparnasse is glad to let Babet dictate the conversation again though. The guys know to look out for Brujon now, that’s all he wanted. And as far as interests are concerned. If that taxi driving thing Jehan talked about is really an option he’ll try to talk to Brujon about it, privately, but not before he’s got more information.

♦♦♦

“So basically, all you need is a driver’s license and a public transport card,” Jehan explains.

The two of them are out for a night-time ramble. It is, in Montparnasse’s opinion, not much different from a walk, apart from the fact that Jehan prefers not to know where they are going. Montparnasse doesn’t much care, but he chooses familiar streets out of habit anyway.

“And they’ll hire anyone?” he says cautiously.

“If you can show them you can drive,” Jehan nods. “At least Bahorel said it didn’t seem like they cared about anything else.” They pull a face. “They want you to dress up of course.”

“They don’t have uniforms?” Montparnasse asks.

Jehan shakes their head. “No, Bahorel had to bring his own suit. They just said ‘look presentable’.”

That’s not too bad. Montparnasse hums. “Brujon cleans up nice,” he says. “I doubt he has anything that’ll pass for a suit, but that’s easily fixed.” If there’s one thing he’s forced to give Fauntleroy credit for it’s that even though he’s frightfully careless about his everyday clothes, Brujon has never been averse to shopping.

A strange smile trembles on Jehan’s lips when Montparnasse looks at them and he raises an eyebrow in question.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Jehan says. “I’m glad you think it might be an option is all.”

Montparnasse smiles vaguely and gives their waist a squeeze. So is he. He still isn’t too happy about losing it in front of Jehan, but it hasn’t made them draw back. Quite the opposite actually. And he can’t help but be happy with that.

“But you talked to your friends then?” Jehan asks. “About Brujon.”

Montparnasse nods.

“That’s good,” Jehan says happily.

He nods again. According to Claquesous, Fauntleroy knew Brujon was messing around, but not with whom exactly. And Fauntleroy usually takes Claquesous’ word as gospel so that should be alright.

“How has he been?” Jehan asks. “Brujon I mean.”

“Okay, I think,” Montparnasse says. Brujon isn’t stupid. Not really. He just needs…something good. Maybe this taxi thing will be good enough.

They pass a small playground, tucked between two streets, and it takes Jehan about two seconds to pull Montparnasse towards the little merry-go-round.

“No spinning this time, I promise,” they giggle.

Montparnasse grimaces at them. _Nothing_ seems to get Jehan motion sick, it’s uncanny.

They sit down side by side and push themselves around, shoes squeaking against the rubber tiles on the ground. Jehan puts their hand on top of Montparnasse’s and for a while they just sit and spin gently. Montparnasse moves his hand until their fingers are laced together. This is nearly perfect. If the floorboards of the merry-go-round weren’t so sandy it would be.

“Parnasse, can I ask you something?”

“Always.”

Jehan lets their feet drag across the ground, slowing their momentum, and looks at him. “You don’t want Brujon to go do what you did…”

Montparnasse looks at them silently. They’ve never asked any direct questions about that part of his past, but he will answer them if they do. He’s not going to lie. He hopes they know that, he thinks they do.

“What made you stop?”

There is a short silence, but Jehan says nothing more, they just look at him.

“Stop…what exactly?” Montparnasse asks, against his better judgement. He doesn’t really want to force them to say it out loud, but they never ask questions like this and he doesn’t want to answer something they don’t want to hear.

Jehan looks away. “What you did...before you dealt at the club.”

Montparnasse glances at them. They’ve got the timeline slightly skewed. He _started_ at the club, that’s where he met Claquesous and Babet, he just went back there for a time while trying and failing to find a different sort of job. Before he found the antique store. He hesitates for a moment, weighing his options.

“Has Éponine ever said anything about her father?”

Jehan looks surprised. “No…” they say. “I don’t think so. She’s mentioned her mother…that she lost visitation rights.”

“Her dad’s in prison,” Montparnasse says bluntly.

“Oh.” Jehan’s expression is cautious, but they’re clearly waiting for him to go on.

“I used to work with him, or for him.” Montparnasse smiles bitterly. “Slight point of contention, that.”

Jehan stays silent and Montparnasse considers telling them that he just woke up one morning and changed his mind. That wouldn’t be a lie. He really did do that. It just happened to be the morning after one of the worst damn nights of his life.

“Thénardier and I had a disagreement about a job,” he says finally. It had been a very straightforward disagreement. Thénardier had told him to do it, Montparnasse had told him to go to hell.

“And how did that end?” Jehan asks softly.

“Depends how you look at it,” Montparnasse says wryly. “I ended up with a couple of cracked ribs, he ended up in prison.”

Jehan stares at him. “You pressed charges?”

Montparnasse swallows a sneering laugh. “No, the police got him for the home invasion.” It’s strange and jarring to say it out loud. At least it’s weird to say it here, with Jehan, sitting in a children’s’ playground.

“That’s what he wanted you to do?” Jehan asks, voice sinking slightly.

“Me and Éponine,” Montparnasse says and suddenly, inexplicably, probably under the influence of Jehan’s quiet eyes, he starts talking. And he doesn’t stop. He tells them _everything_. Thénardier’s presumptions, Éponine’s panic, his own stupidity, the impulsive phone call to the police. Gueulemer nearly losing it when he came home. Claquesous actually losing it when he found out the next day. Everything. He’s never told the story in this much detail and once he gets going he can’t seem to stop. At least not until he sees the expression on Jehan’s face.

Jehan isn’t scared or bewildered, or even shocked. Jehan is _angry_. Their face is flush not just with indignation but with actual fury and once again Montparnasse was not expecting that. He had at least expected some sort of…gravity, not this. Not Jehan sitting primly upright with their hands balled to fists, actually swearing out loud sometimes. Montparnasse is almost laughing by the time he has finished the story, because _man,_ do they look vicious.

“You look nearly as angry as Ponine did that night,” he grins. His own anger over this has long faded to a bitter sneer. Thénardier didn’t leave any marks… Montparnasse won.

Jehan shakes their head and clearly decides not to speak until they have something coherent to say. For a while they both sit in silence, Montparnasse feeling oddly light.

Eventually Jehan says, sounding nearly calm: “And that’s when you got out?”

“Took a while, but yeah,” Montparnasse nods. “Figured that if I didn’t, my only options were either getting screwed over by another Thénardier or ending up just like him…”

“You never would have,” Jehan snaps and there is actual fire in their eyes.

Montparnasse gives them a wry smile. “No,” he says. “I would have looked better doing it.”

Jehan makes a contemptuous sound and Montparnasse looks at them in fascination. There are a lot of conclusions they could have drawn from that story and to be honest, Montparnasse had not expected all their conclusions to be in his favour.

“What about your friends?” Jehan asks suddenly.

“Hm?” he hums.

“Didn’t they do— Didn’t they work with you?” they say.

“Sous and Babet did, yeah,” Montparnasse nods. “Gueul too, but different.”

“But they don’t anymore?”

Montparnasse makes a vague movement with his head. “Gueul’s current place of work isn’t exactly squeaky clean,” he says. “And neither is the club, you know that. But none of us do what we used to do, no.”

“Because you quit,” Jehan says, eyes fixed on him.

Montparnasse frowns. “No…I just…” He shrugs.

There is something vaguely reminiscent of triumph on Jehan’s face and Montparnasse knows what they’re thinking, but he deserves no credit for Babet and Claquesous’ success. They’re artists. They’ve always wanted to do that kind of shit. They just never got off their asses and actually tried before. Never got this lucky before…

“Anyway,” he says. “Not a very nice story, is it.” He doesn’t sound remorseful, because he isn’t. But he knows it isn’t a nice story. That’s just a damn fact.

Jehan looks at him for a moment and then, to his absolute astonishment, they shrug.

Montparnasse stares at them.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jehan says decidedly. “I didn’t need to know all this, you know. I know who you are now. It really makes no difference. I was just…I didn’t _need_ to know it, but I still wanted to.” They voice and expression soften a little. “I’d like to know all of you.”

“Careful, vögelchen,” Montparnasse hums, trying to hide how ridiculously happy he feels just now. “You know I am a vain man, don’t encourage me.”

A sly smile passes across Jehan’s lips. “But I love to listen to you,” they coax, putting their head against his shoulder. “Tell me a story. A nice one?”

Drenched in happiness as he currently is Montparnasse really doesn’t need any further coaxing. He begins to talk and he tells all the stories he hasn’t told so far. Well, not all of them, but the good ones. The ones that end with him and his friends running triumphantly into the night. Or with Claquesous hooking up with a girl he tried to pickpocket. Or with Babet managing not to break a single thing despite falling off a roof.

Jehan listens and marvels and laughs. They ask for more, spur him on and eventually start telling stories of their own in return. When they’re tired of sitting, they stroll on, both their laughs bouncing off the buildings on either side of the mostly deserted streets.

“Where are we?” Jehan laughs after a while.

“Beats me,” Montparnasse grins. “Does it matter?”

They both look around and with the unpleasant jolt of dislodged memory Montparnasse realizes that he does know where they are.

“We’re near my old school,” he says, sounding rather more displeased than he meant to.

“Oh?” Jehan says.

Montparnasse points to a large building further down the street. “God I hated it there,” he grimaces.

“Mm,” Jehan hums understandingly.

Instead of walking on or turning back Montparnasse just stands and stares, head slanted. He hasn’t been here in years… “I always meant to go back,” he says, remembering his teenage vows. “Break in. Smash the place.” He hums thoughtfully. “Doesn’t really appeal anymore.”

“No?” they say gently.

“No…” He smiles faintly. “Except perhaps to say hello to some ghosts.”

“I’m in favour of talking to ghosts,” Jehan hums.

Montparnasse laughs silently and squeezes their hand. “The ghost of who I was wouldn’t recognise me now.” He means that. He really doesn’t think that angry, silent kid would recognise what he became. Or at least he wouldn’t believe what he saw.

A smile lights up Jehan’s face and they bounce on the balls of their feet. “Let’s go say hi.”

“What?” Montparnasse laughs.

“I mean it!” Jehan says, sparks in their eyes.

Montparnasse raises his eyebrows at them. “You want to break into my old school with me?” he says.

“Yes,” Jehan grins. “I really do.”

Montparnasse looks at them for a quiet moment before a grin overspreads his face. “Let’s go then.”

Jehan follows him, all bright smiles and barely repressed laughter. There is excitement on their face when he picks the lock of the side door, but they look positively delighted as he disables the alarm.

“How did you do that?” they whisper.

“They never change the code,” Montparnasse chuckles. “It’s been the same for forever.”

Stepping back into his old school is the strangest feeling of disjointed déjà vu. It looks the same, smells the same, but it doesn’t feel the same. He’s not trapped here now and he has Jehan beside him. God he hopes is former self is watching right now, he really does.

“Feel any ghosts yet?” Jehan breathes, slowly spinning round in the empty, echoing hallway.

Montparnasse chuckles and catches them by the hand.

“What was your favourite class?” Jehan asks, keeping their voice low and following him down the rows of empty coat hooks with silent steps.

There’s no one around to hear them, but Montparnasse keeps his voice down as well when he answers with a shrug: “Didn’t have one.”

Jehan softly clicks their tongue and Montparnasse knows they just rolled their eyes a little. “Least hated then.”

“Let me guess,” Montparnasse hums, to avoid thinking about his own answer. “Yours was literature.”

“No,” Jehan shakes their head. “I didn’t like dissecting poems with formulas and being told what to feel when reading a book. I did like literature, but I liked history a lot better.”

“A lot of history is being told what to believe and think about a bunch of stuff you know is lies,” Montparnasse hums. It slips out before he remembers Jehan _studies_ bloody history. He forgets sometimes, the way they talk about their classes doesn’t sound much like history to Montparnasse. They talk about art so much. Art and stories.

Jehan doesn’t seem offended though. “Not if you have a proper teacher,” they say.

“Did you?” Montparnasse asks blankly. He’s sure he never did.

“Most of the time, yeah,” Jehan says. “Well, not at my first school. That guy was a jerk, even my mums agreed, and not just cause he gave me detention.”

Montparnasse tries to picture a young Jehan storming out of a classroom with a history book tucked under their arm and grins. “If only we’d have been at the same school,” he hums, drawing them closer. “Detention would have been a treat with you to look at.”

Jehan bites their lip, grinning and leans towards him. Suddenly they press a single, abrupt kiss on his lips, turn on their toes like the dancer they are and gleefully dart away from him, down the darkened corridor. Montparnasse laughs, because the sparks in his chest tell him to, and chases after them.

The next hour or so they treat the empty school like a playground. Jehan draws flowers on the chalkboards, they race each other through the corridors and dance in the assembly hall. They make out in the library and then again in the chemistry lab, just because the thought makes Jehan giggle. Montparnasse ends up pinned against the wall, right next to the poster with the table of elements, with Jehan doing a pretty good job of putting all his high school fantasies to shame.

“You haven’t told me your favourite subject yet,” Jehan pants, turning their head to the side to breathe, but pressing their hips against Montparnasse’s to make up for it.

“Biology,” Montparnasse replies, ducking down to kiss their neck.

“Liar,” Jehan laughs, tangling their fingers into Montparnasse’s hair and pulling his head back.

Montparnasse looks at them, relishing the shivers down his back. Jehan’s eyes dart from his eyes to his lips to his neck and instead of repeating their question they pull his collar aside to press a teasing kiss on his collarbone.

“You really didn’t have one?” they murmur against his skin before kissing a little higher.

He sighs, letting his eyes close. Like he could remember now. “Art,” he mutters. “I liked art.” He chuckles and opens his eyes to see they are looking up at him. “Cliché enough?”

“It’s not though,” Jehan hums. For a moment they look thoughtful, but then they grin and drag Montparnasse down by the collar, back into another kiss.

♦

When they say goodbye at the metro station Montparnasse is still full of triumph over the past and love for the present. Jehan’s hands linger on his chest a moment and he smiles at them.

“What is it, vögelchen?”

“I was just wondering—” they begin uncertainly.

Montparnasse is surprised by the sudden shadow of nerves on their face. “Yeah?” he prompts.

“I’m participating in a march next month,” they says, looking at him earnestly. “We all are, my friends I mean. Enjolras and Bahorel helped organize it.”

Why the hell not, clearly they have too much time on their hands. “A march for what?” Montparnasse asks. “Or against?”

“Islamophobia,” Jehan says.

Montparnasse hums.

“It’s a really big problem,” Jehan says. “And getting worse too. It’s awful.”

Montparnasse hums slightly louder. No doubt. Lots of things are awful. People are garbage. Wait— “You’re all marching?” he asks.

Jehan nods. “Take a stand, you know. Give some speeches.”

He doesn’t like the sound of that. He really doesn’t. Things are usually pretty okay around here as far as actual violence goes, but this sort of stuff attracts attention. The _wrong_ kind of attention. He keeps his mouth shut, because there’s no way he can prevent Jehan from going anyway. He has nothing to do with this, does he. It’s none of his—

“Will you come?”

Montparnasse’s thoughts freeze in place. Jehan is looking at him so earnestly, so expectantly. “I don’t think—” he begins slowly.

“Feuilly will be there,” they interrupt him gently. The nerves are gone from their face, there’s only determined sincerity left.

Montparnasse smiles thinly. “I’m pretty sure some your _other_ friends don’t want me to be there,” he says. More importantly. _He_ doesn’t want to be there. It’s not his fight. Not his problem. There’s enough shit in the world without trying to fight other people’s battles. Breaking up a fight that’s happening on your street or starting one to teach someone a lesson, that’s different. But stuff like this…

“ _I_ want you to be there.”

Montparnasse looks up. Jehan isn’t pouting or pleading. They’re just looking at him. Quietly. Earnestly. Montparnasse hesitates. This was a perfect night. He’s not going to spoil it now.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll come if you want me to.”

Jehan’s face is all softness and shining gladness. “Thank you,” they beam and they wrap their arms around him, hugging and kissing him at the same time. “I’ll send you the details when I get home,” they say happily.

“Alright,” he says, giving them an extra kiss. “Sweet dreams then, for later.”

He lets go of them and they smile, letting their arms slip off him just a little slower than need be. “Goodnight,” they murmur and with a smile and clear reluctance on both sides they each walk towards a different staircase.

Montparnasse glances back, but Jehan is already out of sight. He doesn’t quite manage to hold on to the light feeling that ruled the first half of the night. Jehan’s text with more information (and goodnight wishes flanked by pink hearts) arrives when he’s just walking up to the house. He’s still reading when he walks up the stairs.

“Evening.”

Montparnasse looks up. Claquesous is leaning against his own front door and looking at him from underneath his blue fringe. He finally died it for real. Fauntleroy must be over the moon.

“Had a good time with the redhead?” he asks, the vaguest semblance of a smirk in the corner of his mouth.

“Their name is Jehan,” Montparnasse reminds him pointedly.

Claquesous gives him an unimpressed look. “Does it matter? Not like you’re not introducing them any time soon.”

Montparnasse glares, but Claquesous glares back and he’s are a worthy opponent.

“We’d be cool to your fucking innocent baby bird of a date-mate, you know,” he snaps and that’s a lot of pointedly enunciated words for a sober Claquesous.

“I know that, okay,” Montparnasse grunts, deciding not to argue with the ‘baby’ part, nor the ‘innocent’. “It’s not about that. And it’s none of your business!” He doesn’t need this right now.

Claquesous looks at him. Silent. And frowning intentionally instead of with his usual sullen expression.

Montparnasse looks away. It was never about him not wanting Jehan to meet his friends. It used to be about him not wanting his friends to meet Jehan. Jehan had to be a separate part of his life. So that when he eventually and inevitably lost them, it’d be easy. But he’s way past easy now. He knows that. Nothing about this is easy anymore and…if Jehan meets them _now_. Montparnasse doesn’t know how to combine the image of Jehan with his friends. He thinks on the cheerful amazement on Jehan’s face as he told stories tonight and wishes he hadn’t said a word. That’s not all they are. But he can’t explain to Jehan all of who they are and _what_ they are. What they are to him. He can’t be sure they’ll understand. And if they _don’t_ …

He looks up to find Claquesous still looking at him, but now with an expression that Montparnasse hasn’t seen for a long time. “Idiot,” Claquesous snorts. He answers Montparnasse’s glare with an amused look and suddenly adds: “Bring ‘em to the show.”

Montparnasse blinks. “You—”

“Bring ‘em to the show,” Claquesous repeats, with more authority this time. “And after they can stay and hang out. Like last time. Breakfast. Or something.”

Montparnasse leans back against the wall. Jehan at a Bal Masqué. Just that image is temptation enough. But it might actually work. At least _he_ can’t think of a better way to introduce his friends. Babet and Claquesous at least. They’re good at what they do. So good. It’s not something he can explain, but Jehan will be able to see it. And they’ll also see what that world is like. That it’s a different place, somewhere where most of the outside world doesn’t matter and following her rules is laughable. Maybe they’ll understand it that way.

Slowly, Montparnasse looks up. “Yeah…” he says distantly. “I’ll— I’ll consider it.”

“You do that,” Claquesous sniffs and he disappears into his apartment.

Montparnasse walks up the stairs and somehow ends up thinking about Babet and Violet. She had never really hung out with them. Not properly. Claquesous hadn’t liked her. Montparnasse hadn’t liked how she turned Babet into even more of a moron. That can’t happen with Jehan. It can’t.

Mindlessly he empties his pockets on his bedside table and to his surprise a paper falls to the floor when he does so. It’s only a scrap, but there’s writing on it. Montparnasse picks it up and turns on the light. It’s Jehan’s handwriting. Not their beautiful, curved calligraphy, but their messy, hasty scrawl. It’s a poem and not one of their own, the title and author prominently head the page. Montparnasse sits down on the edge of his bed and reads:

 _Peace flows into me_  
_As the tide to the pool by the shore;_  
_It is mine forevermore,_  
_It ebbs not back like the sea._

 _I am the pool of blue_  
_That worships the vivid sky;_  
_My hopes were heaven-high,_  
_They are all fulfilled in you._

 _I am the pool of gold_  
_When sunset burns and dies--_  
_You are my deepening skies,_  
_Give me your stars to hold._

The page is signed with a single “X”. That tells Montparnasse this was really for him. Jehan must have slipped it in his pocket at some point. No telling when, really. They’re too restless to sit still for a moment, but patient enough to wait as long as it takes for him to find something like this.

Montparnasse stares at the words on the page. He thinks about Jehan writing those words. About seas and skies and stars and— He loves them. He _loves_ them. He loves them more than he’s ever loved anyone.

Even if he keeps them away from his entire world, from everyone he knows. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if no one ever knows about them. He’ll know. He can’t even imagine his life without them anymore. Or he doesn’t want to. He really, _really_ doesn’t want to. Because fuck they make him happy. And all he wants is to make them happy. If he possibly can. If they’ll let him.

Montparnasse hasn’t moved since reading the poem, but his feet turn on their own accord. He’s so completely full up with feelings he can barely think. All he can think is that Jehan isn’t here with him.

Jehan picks up their phone on the first ring. “Parnasse?”

Their voice is like colours in the dark and Montparnasse wants to answer, but suddenly he can’t. How hard is it to say three damn words he _knows_ he means. He’s not lying, not pretending, it’s the _truth_. He loves them. With every fibre in his being.

“What is it, louveteau?” Jehan tries again. "Everything ok?"

“You leave a trail of poetry behind you, vögelchen.” His voice sounds smooth. Not at all like his heart is beating out of control in his chest.

“It made me think of you,” Jehan replies softly, after a short silence as soft as their voice.

Montparnasse gives up and lets himself fall back onto his bed. “Will you recite it for me?” he asks. Jehan chose it and wrote it down for him, that means they know it by heart.

Jehan’s soft laugh on the other end of the line is life to him and he drinks the sound down greedily. They don’t answer, they just start with the first line. Montparnasse closes his eyes and listens. And smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That poem was ‘Peace” by Sara Teasdale, because I am never letting this star and sky theme go.


	15. Montparnasse doesn’t care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After missing a week out of respect for Barricade Day here I am again! It's the chapter of the march today, so...
> 
> Content warnings: racism/discrimination, short instance of violence, blood, minor injury. (No tag for angst/anxiety because it's all over very quickly, I promise.)

When Montparnasse arrives at the Musain and Jehan greets him with a pleased hug and a kiss, Montparnasse sees a decided divide in the reactions of their friends. Some of them look surprised he’s there, others don’t. Feuilly is among the latter, which Montparnasse appreciates, but there’s no need for him to look so damn proud.

Luckily there’s not really any opportunity for small talk. Everyone is too busy getting ready. Enjolras is briefing people on safety and general procedure, Joly is waving his phone around, asking every newcomer if they’ve got the necessary phone numbers memorized or written down just in case. There are a lot of people, many that seem completely unknown to Jehan and their friends. Bahorel is the only one that addresses everyone as if he knows them, but Montparnasse is pretty sure he does that anyway. Bahorel _is_ one of the organizers of this thing though and he looks it. He’s standing in front of the quickly growing crowd, clad in a djellaba and flanked by Feuilly on one side and a tall, muscular girl on the other. Montparnasse grimaces as he sees Bahorel wrap an arm around both Feuilly and the girl, drawing both of them closer. They’re going to attract a fuckload of attention this way.

“Alright!” Enjolras speaks up as soon as he gets a sign from Combeferre. “The west group has started to move, let’s go meet them!”

To Montparnasse’s relief Jehan joins him as soon as they start walking. He grabs their hand and they smile at him. All the Amis walk close together and although they are leading the march – which Montparnasse doesn’t like – the other people aren’t far behind. He keeps half an eye on Feuilly and doesn’t let go of Jehan’s hand.

Pouring through the streets they reach the square that is to be their first meeting point just as the other group Enjolras mentioned does. There is a cheer from both crowds and they mingle, all turning towards a small podium that Enjolras and Bahorel climb to speak to the gathered people.

They stand tall, side by side, and start talking.

Montparnasse doesn’t really listen to them, he knows the gist of what they’re trying to say: solidarity, humanity, freedom, brighter future. Instead of watching them he watches the crowd, especially the new people joining, drawn in by the speeches. Not all of them look friendly.

Bahorel doesn’t seem to mind. He’s pointing and calling out the people drawing cautiously nearer and to Montparnasse annoyance several of Jehan’s friends leave the crowd to speak to the bystanders in person. That really isn’t a good i—

Jehan lets go of his hand.

“ _Jehan_ —” Montparnasse grunts, but they’re gone already. He sees their red hair dance out of sight and with a muttered swear he moves to follow them. Before he can, Grantaire is suddenly beside him.

“Lost Jehan?” he smiles vaguely and before Montparnasse can answer he says: “They’ll come back.”

Montparnasse swallows his first reply and shuts his mouth. Jehan will come back. They’re free to do as they please. The feel of the crowd is friendly still. They’ll come back and it’s fine. It’s fine.

Enjolras takes over from Bahorel again and Grantaire looks up at the stage with a helplessly fond expression that Montparnasse would have made fun of if it wasn’t so damn familiar. Montparnasse actually listens to Enjolras for a moment and grimaces. He looks at Grantaire.

“You don’t think any of this is going to _help,_ do you?” Because it won’t. He knows it won’t.

Grantaire glances at him and shrugs.

“You’re not going to convince the garbage of the world to stop being garbage,” Montparnasse says snidely. You can give it a bloody nose, you can smash its windshields, but you can’t change its mind.”

“Probably not,” Grantaire admits. “But you know, that’s not the point.”

“Then what _is_ the point?” Montparnasse snarks.

Grantaire makes a motion with his head and turns around, facing the crowd instead of the stage. Montparnasse does the same and he follows the gesture Grantaire makes with his hand with his gaze. The crowd is listening, of course they are, they came out for this damn thing in the first place. But while they really can’t be hearing anything that’s new to them, they are nodding like they want to hear it again. And more people are joining, new people. Grantaire nods towards a couple of teenage girls, including two wearing hijabs. Enjolras shouts something, some people cheer and others follow.

“Course it’s not enough,” Grantaire says. “But…there’s no shame in preaching to the choir a bit. If only to remind them they don’t actually have to sing alone, you know.”

Montparnasse can’t say he does, but he hums vaguely. It still sounds like a drop in the ocean. He glances at the crowd again. Well…drops.

“It’s cool that you’re here though,” Grantaire says, turning back towards the stage. “Means a lot to Jehan.”

“I know,” Montparnasse grunts.

“And I know you know,” Grantaire grins obnoxiously.

Montparnasse scoffs and to be fair, Grantaire shuts up after that. He listens to the speech while Montparnasse watches the crowd some more. He sees movement coming towards him and suddenly Jehan is back, a determined smile on their face. They look pleased to see Grantaire beside him and Montparnasse smiles in response to their leaning against him for a moment.

Finally Enjolras and Bahorel get off the podium and the march continues. As far as Montparnasse understood they’re just going to walk through some principle streets in the city, ending at another square. Apparently it’s all cleared with the city council. Very civil. Montparnasse sneers at that inwardly, but it _does_ all seem very friendly. The crowd is quite big now, but no one pushes or shoves. Several people are filming. Montparnasse sees Combeferre walking next and talking to someone who’s obviously a reporter, but he’s also seen the cops. Some of them are standing in the side streets that they’re passing, others seem to be walking along rather passively, but all of them are armed. Montparnasse doesn’t know if this is supposed to be a ‘perk’ of an organised march, but he doesn’t like it.

“They’re only here to make sure everything goes well,” Jehan hums, slipping their hand in his again.

Montparnasse hadn’t realised they had noticed him looking. “Hm,” he hums. That’s as neutral a response as he’s capable of giving right now.

Jehan doesn’t say anything else, but they don’t let go of his hand.

Somewhere in the crowd someone starts singing. Montparnasse doesn’t know the words or the melody, but many other people clearly do, because soon half of the crowd is singing. It sounds like Arabic to him. The tune is easily carried and after a while more people join in just humming the melody or vocalizing wordlessly. The voices start to sound like one. It gives a rhythm to everyone’s footsteps and something about this is kind of… Montparnasse doesn’t want to name it, but he does feel it. The crowd around them is mostly unfamiliar faces now, he sees a couple of Jehan’s friends still, but most of them are out of sight. Feuilly must be somewhere up front with Bahorel. Still, Jehan’s hand is firmly in his, there are no uniforms in his peripheral vision right now and Montparnasse can listen to the singing.

The crowd grows thicker and thinner with very little predictability and Montparnasse is starting to get annoyed at the speeding and slowing pace of their walking when he feels eyes on him. He glances to the side and sees a couple guys slouching against the corner of a store building. Montparnasse slants his head and looks at them, slowing down just enough to make eye contact with one of them. The guy looks away immediately and Montparnasse turns away before Jehan gets curious. From the corner of his eyes he sees the trio turn away and go into a side street. Good.

The sudden raised voices behind them make Jehan spin round, as well as Montparnasse. Courfeyrac is standing opposite one of the guys Montparnasse was sure would be too full of shit to actually do something. Courfeyrac is laughing and shaking his head at him, but Montparnasse knows what’s going on and he really wishes that Courfeyrac – with his tan skin and dark curls – would have the sense to start walking again. Not much chance of that it seems, though, and Montparnasse can just hear his voice, full of defiance:

“And what if I was? _Pendejo_. Like you have the r—”

Even Montparnasse is shocked by the punch that cuts Courfeyrac’s sentence short. He barely has time to watch Courfeyrac stagger back in pain though, because a second later Jehan’s hand is slipping through his grasp and they are storming towards their bleeding friend. Or rather, towards the asshole that _punched_ their friend. Cursing in a voice that Montparnasse has never heard before they shove the attacker away from him. They dodge a clumsy strike with nearly elegant ease, but their swinging braid is a much easier target than their face and Montparnasse is _not_ going to let it come to that.

Two steps and a heartbeat puts Montparnasse between Jehan and the attacker, another beat and his blackjack is in his hand. The metallic swish of the weapon extending is followed so immediately by a cry of pain that it’s barely heard. Montparnasse is just aware of Jehan supporting Courfeyrac behind him while the guy that hit him sinks to the ground in front of him. A blow to the knees will do that. Montparnasse brings a hand down on the jerk’s shoulders before he can even think of getting back up.

“Your mates had the sense to fuck off,” he hisses. “I suggest you do the same.”

The guy looks up into his face and Montparnasse grimaces.

“If you want to be a racist piece of shit that is your business, but you got _blood_ on a Saint Laurent shirt and I should fucking gut you for that.”

Instead of letting go he drags the guy to his feet and turns him around.

“Fuck off,” Montparnasse orders and he shoves him hard enough to make him stumble forward. He has the sense to keep moving and he doesn’t look back.

He turns around in search of Jehan, but all he sees is Courfeyrac’s face, wide-eyed and bloody. “Thanks,” he squeaks, looking up at Montparnasse looking rather frazzled, but genuinely appreciative.

Montparnasse makes a dismissive sound. Courfeyrac’s nose probably hurts like a bitch, but it doesn’t actually look that bad. “It’s not broken,” he says, leaning towards Courfeyrac a little to get a closer look. “The only thing that’s ruined is your shir—”

“—bloody well will if you don’t _let me go_.”

Montparnasse looks over just in time to see Combeferre break away from Grantaire and Bossuet. There is actual panic in the eyes behind the glasses and he nearly shoves Montparnasse out of the way to get to Courfeyrac.

“ _Watch it_ ,” Montparnasse spits, stepping aside. Also, where the _fuck_ is Jehan?

“Montparnasse!”

Montparnasse turns, and looks straight into the face of Enjolras. _Great_. “Not now,” he says. “I—”

“Thank you.” Enjolras’ face is all concerned earnestness and Montparnasse blinks. Behind him he hears a stream of incoherent words flowing out of Combeferre’s mouth, followed by Courfeyrac insisting: “I’m ok, Ferre. Bloody nose, that’s all.” Enjolras is still looking at him though.

“Ok—” Montparnasse begins by way of reply, but Enjolras isn’t done and suddenly he is listening to what sounds like a bullet point list of heartfelt appreciation with a slight side of apologies. Montparnasse was not prepared for this. He doesn’t _want_ this.

“You realise I still don’t fucking care right?” he says as soon as Enjolras gives him an opportunity to speak.

“But you do,” Enjolras insists. “You clearly care about Jehan, anyone can see that. And I know that’s why you came, but this is not just about Jehan. You care about the cause too. You could have hurt that guy a lot worse, with…that—”

His eyes rest on the blackjack for a moment and Montparnasse makes it disappear into his coat again. If Enjolras is going to start up about illegal weaponry—

“But you _didn’t_ ,” Enjolras continues, eyes fixed on Montparnasse’s again. “Thank you, for that as well. It—”

An odd expression passes across his face for a moment and for a fraction of a second the look in Enjolras’ eyes is startlingly familiar. With an uncomfortable feeling of recognition Montparnasse suddenly wonders if _Enjolras_ would have done worse if he had gotten there first.

“It would have looked bad,” Enjolras finishes tensely.

Montparnasse nods, hoping that will be enough to make Enjolras back off again. He’d like to process this in peace.

Enjolras sighs and repeats one more time: “Thank you.”

Montparnasse himself is _very_ thankful for the sudden interruption of Combeferre who says in a voice that is still nowhere near his normal collected self: “Enjolras, we need Joly.”

Enjolras turns towards him and Montparnasse takes a quick step to the side. Enjolras looked like he was going to bloody _hug_ him just now, he’s not— There’s a tap on his shoulder and Montparnasse spins around with aggravated exasperation.

“ _What_ —”

He has just enough time to swallow his words before Jehan throws their arms around his neck and kisses him full on the mouth.

Well, that’s certainly an improvement of this situation.

Montparnasse wraps his arms around them and kisses back, resolving really not to let go of them anymore for the foreseeable future.

Jehan lowers themself down from the tips of their toes, ending the kiss without letting Montparnasse go, and smiles up at him. They don’t say anything, they just smile.

There is an argument going on around them between Courfeyrac, who wants to keep on marching since they’re nearing the end anyway and Combeferre, who won’t hear of it and is trying to force Enjolras, Grantaire and Bossuet to take his side. Montparnasse wishes they’d quiet down a bit, he wants to kiss Jehan again.

“Joly’s on his way,” Bossuet informs them. “Musichetta is staying up front with Bahorel and Risa.”

“Shouldn’t we go to a hospital?” Combeferre says, sounding less frantic but still very worried.

Montparnasse snorts. Last time Gueulemer actually broke his nose he said he’d “walk it off”. Babet must have finished stage-handing at least one show with a broken finger. There’s nothing wrong with Courfeyrac that a splash of water in the face won’t cure. It’ll look ugly for a while, but that’s it.

When Joly arrives he doesn’t seem to agree, not exactly. He talks about putting ice on it, but he also tuts at Combeferre’s suggestion of a hospital and scolds all his friends for forgetting about the fist aid posts. In the end he whisks Courfeyrac away, Enjolras hurries to get back to the front of the march in time for the finish, dragging Combeferre with them and the rest of them carry on walking where they are.

Montparnasse has no attention for the ending speeches, but he keeps hold of Jehan’s hand and mindlessly agrees to go with them to Bossuet and Joly’s apartment, which is apparently where everyone is going. He _shouldn’t_ have agreed to that though, because everyone includes Feuilly.

“Parnasse are you—”

“You’re not seriously going to ask me if I’m okay are you,” Montparnasse grunts.

“Let the man worry,” Bahorel booms, bursting through the door behind Feuilly and slinging an arm around his shoulder. “At his first protest he nearly got his lights punched out.”

“He what,” Montparnasse deadpans, staring at Feuilly. Beside him Jehan, still dutifully holding his hand, giggles.

“This wasn’t a protest,” Enjolras reminds them, coming in with Combeferre and Grantaire in his wake. “This was a march and a very successful one I’d say. Well done everyone!”

There’s a general cheer, under the cover of which Jehan pulls Montparnasse away from Feuilly and a little to the side.

“No making out in my kitchen,” Musichetta warns them, without even so much as turning towards them.

“It’s not your kitchen,” Jehan says impishly.

Now Musichetta does turn around, brown eyes narrowed amusedly. “Technicalities,” she says.

Before Jehan can reply there is a small commotion at the other end of the room. Combeferre has found Courfeyrac again and they both sound rather upset. Montparnasse draws up an eyebrow and Jehan looks past him with a concerned frown. The conversation between the two friends is clearly audible now.

“I _promise_ , Ferre,” Courfeyrac says emphatically. “I’m _fine_.”

“Yeah?” Combeferre says in an uncharacteristically incoherent voice. “Well, I… I…” His shoulders sag and he gives Courfeyrac a helpless look. “Courf—” He cuts himself off again and makes a strange, tense movement towards Courfeyrac. “Courf, I’ve changed my mind.”

“You what?” Courfeyrac sputters.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Combeferre repeats, sounding miserable. “Way too late, probably, but I just—”

Courfeyrac makes a frantic noise and grabs Combeferre’s hands.

“What is going on?” Montparnasse mutters, his head almost leaning against Jehan’s.

“I don’t know,” Jehan whispers. “Unless—”

“Enj?” Courfeyrac raises his voice, without looking away from Combeferre’s face and certainly without letting go of his hands. “Can we still be a trio of best friends if two of us are dating?”

“What?” Enjolras says, confusedly turning away from his conversation with Bahorel and the tall girl, that Montparnasse now knows is his girlfriend Risa.

This time Courfeyrac does look round and his eyes are shining like stars. “If Ferre— If Ferre and I were a couple. Would you mind? Because we thought it might…” He makes an uncomfortable noise and stares at Enjolras intently instead of actually finishing.

Enjolras looks between the anxious faces of his two best friends and frowns. “Why on earth would I mind?” he gapes. “But…since when is this—?”

Instead of listening to the rest of that sentence Courfeyrac squeaks, wraps his arms around Combeferre and kisses him full on his mouth. A moment later they break apart again. “Ow,” Courfeyrac laughs with a pained look on his face and touches his nose.

Combeferre laughs, apologises, laughs again and looks about as far removed from his usual self as he did back at the march when breaking away from Grantaire and Bossuet.

Montparnasse turns back to Jehan, who is staring with their mouth half open and a _delighted_ expression their face.

“Your friend group is getting incestuous,” he grunts. What a ridiculous day this is.

“I had _no_ idea,” Jehan whispers, still in raptures.

Judging from the general amazed exclamations and teasing congratulations, no one did. There is so much damn _noise_.

“I’m sorry,” Jehan says, shaking their head. “I’ve just— I have to— Be right back.” They dart off and push their way towards Courfeyrac.

Montparnasse leans back against the wall and sighs. Well, this day could have gone a lot worse.

“Had to show off a little, did you?”

There’s no mistaking that voice. “Where did you come from all of a sudden,” Montparnasse says, turning towards Éponine.

“We started in the other group,” she explains, leaning against the wall beside him. “I was wondering if you’d come.” She’s smirking at him, but honestly, Montparnasse doesn’t care.

“We?” he echoes snidely.

“Zette and Marius and me,” she replies casually. “Plus some classmates.”

“And which one of them dragged you here exactly,” Montparnasse asks and he actually looks her in the eye, just in case she tries to lie.

Éponine looks back at him. “Neither,” she says. “I didn’t need to be dragged.” She grins. “But I’d say you’ve _more_ than made up for your initial reluctance.”

“Oh shut it,” Montparnasse grunts, turning away again. “Not a big deal.”

Éponine laughs and she has reason to keep laughing, because clearly Montparnasse is the only one that thinks it isn’t. During the mess of talking, eating and drinking that seems to him some sort of parody of an after party, several of Jehan’s friends try to actually start a conversation with him. Combeferre comes to thank him for being there. Enjolras _smiles_ at him. Courfeyrac asks – or rather insists – to give him a hug. Even _Marius_ tries to be nice to him, which is something Montparnasse really doesn’t have the patience for. Especially since both Éponine and Grantaire seem to be laughing their head off. They’re acting far too chummy together too, as far as Montparnasse is concerned. All this shit is giving him a damn headache.

“We can go home if you want,” Jehan smiles. They have taken to draping themself around Montparnasse on the couch, which at least seems to be enough to prevent people from trying to join them.

“If you want to stay—” he says, trying to sound indifferent.

Jehan laughs softly. “No, I’m quite alright with going.”

Montparnasse is happy to stand back while Jehan darts through the room, distributing a variety of hugs and kisses on cheeks. When they return and call out one last goodbye to the room in general, however, the goodbyes that they get in return very specifically address him too. He nods vaguely, following Jehan to the door quickly enough to only have time to make eye contact with Feuilly.

Feuilly smiles at him, merry sparks snapping in his eyes. He still looks proud. Damn him.

One corner of Montparnasse’s mouth twitches up involuntarily just before he ducks out of the door. He had half expected a teasing parting remark from Éponine, but it seems sharing a couch with Marius and Cosette is too distracting to be sarcastic. So much the better.

“What a day,” Jehan sighs when they’re finally walking outside under the darkening sky.

Montparnasse hums. Quite.

They start walking towards the nearest metro stop and for a while there is only comfortable silence between them as they walk.

“Are you hungry still?” Jehan asks suddenly.

“Not really,” Montparnasse says. He’s not sure who was in charge of the food of that gathering just now, but there was a lot of it.

“Mm,” Jehan hums. “To my place then?”

Montparnasse glances at them. They look a little tired, but happy. Come to think of it, that’s how he feels too. Tired – too tired actually, damn that lot is loud – but happy. This was not a bad day. Not at all. A fucking weird one, yes, but not bad. And Jehan wants him to stay over. That will make it a good night.

He opens his mouth to reply and hallway to agreeing he says instead: “We could go to mine.”

That makes no sense at all. Jehan’s place is closer. They don’t have a set of clothes at his place (like he does at theirs by now.) There really is no reason whatsoever to bring Jehan back to Maison Minette right now, but…

Jehan looks up at him with a smile. “Yeah,” they say. “That’d be lovely.”

Montparnasse nods, feeling oddly light, and tucks their hand into the crook of his arm. They walk like that for a while until Montparnasse snorts at himself.

“What?” Jehan asks.

Montparnasse glances at them with a repressed smirk. “Just remembering how you bolted towards that guy all claws and screeching, _vögelchen_ ,” he says deliberately. He looks into Jehan’s eyes. “Got a bit of a red mist thing going on when it comes to your friends, do you?”

Jehan makes a vague noise. After a short silence they say, looking straight ahead, but nearly smiling: “Only thing I ever got in trouble for at my second school...”

Montparnasse takes a moment to process that and decides not to ask, for now.

“Besides, I didn’t know you had a _weapon_ with you,” Jehan laughs.

“I didn’t want you to know,” Montparnasse says. “Hoped I wouldn’t need it.”

Jehan sighs and leans the side of their head against his shoulder for a moment as they walk. “Kind of cool though,” they grin.

Montparnasse smirks.

When he unlocks the front door and steps aside to let Jehan go up the stairs first, Montparnasse seriously considers knocking on Claquesous and Babet’s door. He doesn’t know if they’re home, but— He glances at Jehan. They are moving their shoulders up and down to drive the stiffness from them as they walk the steps. No. Jehan is tired. _He’s_ tired. Not now.

Once they’re inside his apartment Montparnasse makes coffee for himself, tea for Jehan and watches contently how Jehan spreads themself around his apartment.

Their coat ends up next to his, their shoes behind the door, the contents of their bag spread out on the coffee table when they can’t find their phone, one of their hair ties on the arm rest of the couch as they unravel their hair and massage their scalp. Montparnasse looks at them, sitting with their mug cradled in their hands and he wants to tell them. He wants to. He really does.

Jehan looks up at him and smiles. “Want to watch something we both know by heart anyway?”

“Sounds good,” Montparnasse smiles and he pulls them to their feet.

They move to his bed, Netflix playing on his laptop and Jehan goes over their thoughts on the day. That means they talk about the march a bit and about Courfeyrac and Combeferre a _lot_. Eventually they start saying teasing things about concealed weapons and knights in shining armour though, which Montparnasse considers more than enough invitation to pull them into a kiss.

“You know I would have been fine, right?” Jehan says, after indulging in a rather long kiss.

“I know,” Montparnasse says. Well, part of him knows, not all of him. And the part that knows still thinks ‘fine’ isn’t quite good enough. But he _does_ know, that’s the main thing.

“I’m glad you were there though,” Jehan mutters with a smile. They lean their forehead against his. “I’m always glad when you’re there.”

Montparnasse is grateful for the kiss that shuts his mouth. And still… They’re lying in his bed, the same bed they watched the sunrise in, the same spot they were lying that very first time. And Jehan is all slow kisses and unhurried hands and— Montparnasse pulls back to look at them. Jehan looks back, soft and smiling. Montparnasse opens his mouth.

“I love you.” He swallows. “You know that, right?”

The smile on Jehan’s face doesn’t exactly change, but it brightens. It brightens until it lights up the damn room. “I know,” they say. “And I love you.”

Montparnasse smiles, because if there was ever a reason to smile… “Good,” he says and suddenly everything is easy. At least for now. Because Jehan looks just as happy as Montparnasse feels and there is nothing in this whole damn world that can touch them right now.

“I wanted to say it first,” Jehan mutters a while later, when they’re lying side by side under the covers.

“Mm,” Montparnasse hums happily, playing with their fingers in the dark.

“But I didn’t know if you…”

Montparnasse nods into the pillow. “Poetry,” he mumbles. Because they did tell him, didn’t they, just not in their own words.

Jehan turns their head and so does he, their eyes meeting in the almost-dark. “I thought that’d be okay,” they say softly.

Montparnasse smiles. ‘Okay’. The day he thinks poetry brought to him by Jehan Prouvaire is just ‘okay’ hell can come to claim him. “I love you,” he says, because he can now.

This time Jehan’s answer is a glad, melodic noise and they roll over to hide their face against Montparnasse’s chest. Montparnasse wraps an arm around them. What does he need to do to keep this? What can he do to make sure this _lasts_. How can he prevent… His thoughts trail off and suddenly he remembers Jehan talking and laughing with Éponine, their face when they saw him standing with Grantaire. They looked so pleased. So happy. So certain.

“Jehan?”

“Hm?”

Montparnasse is silent long enough that Jehan lifts their head to look at him. Half their face is in shadows, but he can see their searching expression. He smiles. What the fuck does he have to lose. Just as much as he has to gain, probably.

“My friends have another one of their shows, next weekend. At the club. Would you like to come?”

There is a moment of absolute stillness and then Jehan beams. Their face lights up straight through the shadows and for a moment they look like they’re going to burst into a flood of words. They don’t though, instead they press a clumsy kiss on the edge of Montparnasse’s mouth and chin. Montparnasse tries to kiss them back, but they pull back a little and for a moment the fuzzy happiness in his chest makes way for a pang of uncertainty. But that unwanted spark dies before it even catches fire properly, because a moment later Jehan’s eyes are fixed on him like stars and they say, with a voice that sounds exactly like the expression on their face:

“Yes. I would _love_ that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. I made us all wait for that, didn’t I? <3
> 
> I was very nervous about this chapter, action scenes have never been my strong suit and neither are politics, but needs must. My sister helped me a lot and I think it turned out rather well.
> 
> (Courfeyrac and Combeferre have a complicated history in this universe that exists solely in my headcanons. It’s angst-free, but consists of quite a bit of miscommunication and demisexual Ferre being extremely frustrated with himself. But now they’re together they’ll basically have plain sailing ^_^)
> 
> Hopefully I’ll see you next week…for the last chapter. <3


	16. Montparnasse doesn’t believe in perfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s the finale! And we’re going to another show guys (this means alcohol use and drug mentions again), so in case any of you need some atmosphere:  
> [Muse – Follow Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qiu3rvYveSg&ab_channel=Mmequareman93)  
> [Bass Modulators - OMG](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GX0W_g3xqMI&ab_channel=TheHardstyleMusicz)
> 
> PS. If you didn’t read the snippet about Jehan getting ready for the show, you can find that [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14012736/chapters/34651811), and there’s a post with inspiration pictures for their outfit on [my Tumblr](https://mysunfreckle.tumblr.com/post/175036284401/jehans-outfit-for-the-bal-masque-you-know-the).

Claquesous is sprawled out on the couch with his headphones on and Babet is sitting cross-legged on the table with a bowl of hot chocolate in one hand and a book in the other. He looks up when Montparnasse enters, Claquesous – who has his eyes closed – does not.

“Morning,” Babet hums.

“You’re both awake, I might die of shock,” Montparnasse says. He had halfway hoped to find Claquesous alone. Instead of saying anything more he ducks into what passes for a kitchen in this apartment and puts on water for coffee.

“Ran out?” Babet mutters, turning back to his book.

Of course he didn’t and what he has at his own place is much better than this stuff, but his hands need to be busy and this will do. He fills two cups, dumps milk in both, sugar in only one and walks up to the couch Claquesous is lounging on without saying a word.

Slowly Claquesous opens his eyes and looks up at him. His lips don’t move, but there’s something smug in his eyes. Silently he takes the mug and pulls his headphones off with his other hand. “Had something to say?” he asks, almost neutral.

Babet looks up from his book. “What?” he hums distractedly.

Montparnasse pulls a face and leans against the couch’s armrest. “I invited Jehan to come to the show this Saturday.”

For a moment there is nothing but silence, save the muffled drone of music coming from Claquesous’ headphones.

“Ah fuck,” Babet sighs and he slides off the table.

Montparnasse snarls. “What the hell is that sup—”

Babet grabs his wallet off a bookshelf, takes out a twenty and hands it to Claquesous.

“Thank you kindly,” Claquesous smirk, the money vanishing from his hand as soon as it’s between his fingers. To Montparnasse he adds, the smugness overtaking his whole face now: “You’re both on the list already.”

“And you’re both dicks,” Montparnasse says flatly.

“Hey, you just cost me money, Romeo,” Babet grins, slinging an arm across Montparnasse’s shoulders.

“Get off me,” Montparnasse grunts, giving a sharp shake with his shoulders, but Babet merely wraps his arm around his neck instead.

“So we finally get to meet your sweet little student,” he grins. “About fucking time.”

“I may still change my mind,” Montparnasse says darkly, twisting out of Babet’s grip and shoving him away.

“Just as you please,” Claquesous hums, taking a sip of his coffee. “I won my bet.”

Montparnasse glares at him and Claquesous actually laughs. “They’ll like the show,” he says, expression just a little softer than he probably meant it to be.

“Yeah,” Babet quips. “And if they’ve got you as whipped as I think they do, I’ll bloody _adore_ them.”

“Up yours,” Montparnasse snarks, but he can’t quite help the grin sneaking onto his face. Babet and Claquesous are both smirking at him and yes, Jehan _will_ like their show and fuck it, they can make fun of him all they want.

“Have you talked to Gueul yet?” Babet asks. “He’ll be pissed if he misses out.”

Montparnasse hums. That’s a good point. No amount of force could drag Gueulemer into a crowded club. And even if it could, it really wouldn’t be advisable. Gueulemer really doesn’t deal well with crowds in enclosed spaces, it stirs up bad memories.

“He can join after,” Claquesous says, putting his headphones back on.

“Hm, for food?” Montparnasse says. That’s not a bad idea.

“Sound good,” Babet nods, grabbing his book and climbing over Claquesous’ legs to sit on the backrest of the couch.

Claquesous kicks at his feet until he draws them up, perching in a way that _should_ make him lose his balance. He goes back to reading, Claquesous closes his eyes again and that’s that. Jehan is coming this Saturday.

Montparnasse smiles, just a bit, and takes a drink of his coffee. Instantly he pulls a face. “Fuck, your coffee sucks.”

“You made it,” Babet scoffs.

“It’ll be my one regret as I die,” Montparnasse drawls.

“Princess,” Claquesous hums, turning up the volume on his phone.

Montparnasse leaves the mug on the table on his way out and climbs the stairs up to Gueulemer’s apartment with light feet. He knocks on the door.

“It’s open,” Gueulemer calls from inside.

When Montparnasse enters, he’s standing over the sink, rubbing something from an unlabelled plastic tub into his hands. His knuckles are bruised. Montparnasse doesn’t ask.

“I’m going to the show this weekend,” he begins. “You should meet us after, for breakfast or whatever.”

Gueulemer looks up and gives him a slow, lopsided grin. “I guess this mean you’re bringing your sweetheart?”

Montparnasse huffs.

Gueulemer chuckles. “You all come here afterwards instead,” he smirks. “I think I can manage breakfast for four brats.” He pulls a face. “Even if one of them doesn’t eat meat.”

“Don’t be—” Montparnasse stops himself mid-snark. He stares at Gueulemer. “How do you know that?” he demands. No matter how much of a snitch Claquesous is, there is no way he could have found out Jehan is a vegetarian.

Gueulemer’s smirk widens a little. “You know that Feuilly who respectfully pretends he doesn’t know you as well as he does?”

Montparnasse stares at him.

“Well, he stopped by the workshop again the other week. And he’s remarkably talkative on other subjects,” Gueulemer grins.

The thought of Gueulemer and Feuilly swapping stories is crashing in Montparnasse’s brain. It means more blurred lines, more messed up categories, and…he doesn’t care. “Hm,” he hums.

Gueulemer gives him an amused glance. “Your sweetheart’s friends sound like a right bunch of weirdos,” he says.

Montparnasse’s smile still manages to pass for a smirk, just. “Oh you have _no_ idea.”

After staying long enough to find exactly out how much Gueulemer has managed to learn from Feuilly (not that much actually, but Montparnasse thinks he speaks of him with a suspicious degree of approval) Montparnasse repairs to his room. He can’t be bothered to go all the way downstairs again, but he doesn’t have to. Gueulemer has already announced in the group chat that breakfast will be on him Sunday morning. Montparnasse has his phone in his hand to weigh in on Claquesous’ bitching about having to stick to a schedule while unwinding from a show when another message pops up.

 **Ponine** : Can it be true??

Montparnasse rolls his eyes.

 **Ponine** : Can it be????

 **Parnasse** : fuck off

 **Ponine** : Well done

 **Ponine** : Broody asshole <3

Montparnasse is halfway through typing a reply when her new message interrupts him.

 **Ponine** : Tell you what, to show you how genuinely proud and supportive I am. I _won’t_ come to spy on you X

He stops typing. He is so sure of the face Éponine is pulling at this moment he can literally see it.

 **Ponine** : Omg. Has Jehan ever seen you in full getup??

Montparnasse grins. As a matter of fact, they _haven’t_.

♦♦♦

“ _Oh_ —”

Jehan’s eyes are wide and Montparnasse takes a moment to shamelessly drink in their admiration.

“You look—” Jehan makes a vague, adoring noise and their face flushes. “I didn’t know it’d be this formal!”

“It’s not,” Montparnasse assures them, catching them by the hand to pull them over the threshold. “The only dress code is ‘no limitations’, that’s the whole point.”

“Won’t you get too hot?” Jehan asks curiously.

Montparnasse hums unconcernedly. He doesn’t overheat easily and the velvet jacket is worth it.

Jehan smiles and strokes the ruffles of his jabot. “Well, you’re gorgeous.”

Montparnasse looks into their face and smiles. “And you’re positively sparkling,” he hums, carefully touching only the edge of their cheek. There is green glitter dusted along their cheekbones and they are wearing more eye make-up than he’s ever seen they wear. Green and silver, swirling out around their dark eyes and long lashes. It looks _very_ good on them and there’s a shine to their lips that might be lip-gloss or simply Jehan’s personal magic. Either way he’d quite like to kiss them.

“You like it?” Jehan says shyly. “Courfeyrac helped... With my outfit too, he and Bahorel.” They laugh. “Look—” They take an excited step back and take off their coat.

The grin on Montparnasse’s face falters. He stares.

The green make-up makes sense now. Jehan’s entire outfit is green. Well-matched green. They’re wearing a wrap-top with a choker loose around their neck and long, flaring sleeves. More importantly, it leaves their entire midriff bare. Not that Montparnasse is actually looking right now. He’s too busy staring at their shorts. They’re completely covered in sequins, glittering like scales at the slightest movement of Jehan’s hips and suddenly Montparnasse understand the hairclips with little snakes on them, pulling their hair back and coiling round their thin braids. Jehan looks more viper than bird tonight. In his generosity he spares one appreciative thought for Courfeyrac and Bahorel, before forgetting them completely and catching Jehan by the hand.

“Look at you,” he breathes, raising their hand over their head and twirling them round. “What ever did I do to deserve this?”

Jehan’s face is flushed and happy. “I’m glad I didn’t wear my dungarees then,” they laugh.

Montparnasse puts his hands on their hips. The sequins really do feel like scales. “I love you in your dungarees,” he hums. He loves them in anything.

Jehan beams and lifts their face deliberately. Montparnasse kisses them, grinning against their lips when he tastes cherry chapstick.

They pull back, fingers touching the broach pinned at his throat before sliding down his chest, and the nerves that Montparnasse managed to temporarily forget come back. For just a moment he is terrified. And he knows he is the only one. Jehan is all excitement right in front of him. Babet has been an endless bloody stream of jokes about better halves and redhead reputation. Claquesous assured him of the excellence of the show way too many times. Gueulemer asked about their favourite breakfast food for fuck’s sake.

But this was never about Montparnasse being afraid that his friends wouldn’t like Jehan. It’s not even about Jehan not liking them. It’s...change. Somewhere along the way he changed his entire life. Jehan didn’t. He did. He started changing it ages ago. Before he even met them. Bit by bit. He had changed, his friends had changed, everything had changed. But maybe part of him had always thought he might go back. Could go back, _would_ go back. Eventually. When the lie wore out. But not anymore. _That_ is what Jehan has changed. He can’t go back anymore. He doesn’t want to. He wants this. He wants them.

Jehan exhales a shaky breath and Montparnasse is called back to the present.

“I’m so nervous,” they laugh, going to hide their face against his chest but changing their mind, probably remembering their make-up.

“Don’t be,” Montparnasse says and he must be smiling, because his voice sounds like it. “You’ll love it.” At least he hopes so. He really does.

♦

Normally Montparnasse is all in favour of being fashionably late, but tonight he makes sure they arrive good and early.

“Do you want to go in through the back?” he asks with a grin when they arrive at the club.

“You can do that?” Jehan smiles excitedly.

Montparnasse smirks. “Come on.” He pulls Jehan past the waiting crowd outside and to the side door. He knocks four times and a woman with a vaguely familiar face opens it.

She hums. “Montparnasse and Jehan?”

“That’s right,” Montparnasse nods.

“Sous told me to look out for two pretty people in weird clothes,” she informs them with a wink.

“I’m insulted,” Montparnasse says and Jehan giggles.

The woman steps aside and Montparnasse guides Jehan through the door with a hand at the small of their back. Jehan looks up at him excitedly and he grins. He had not expected Jehan to be quite so excited. Their shyness from earlier has evaporated and the energy radiating off them is almost tangible.

They make their way through the bowels of the club. Sometimes someone looks at them like they want to ask them if they’re supposed to be there, but when they do Montparnasse scowls and Jehan greets everyone with such happy excitement that they just leave them be.

“You want to wait at the bar, see everyone come in?” Montparnasse asks. Jehan looks so different tonight. He can’t wait to see them in the club lights. They will sparkle like a gemstone.

“I’d rather meet some of your friends if I can,” Jehan says, half-shy, half-eager.

Montparnasse grimaces, but it’s only for show. “Be careful what you wish for,” he says ominously. He takes their hand and pulls them towards the backstage. “Sous will be busy, but maybe—”

“You’re _shitting me_.”

Montparnasse turns around. Fauntleroy is standing in a doorway and glaring at Jehan.

“What—” Montparnasse begins, a touch aggressively, but to his complete astonishment Jehan squeals.

“It’s you!” they cry. “Hi!”

Montparnasse raises his eyebrows in surprise, but Fauntleroy ignores him and groans. “ _You’re_ Jehan?” they ask. “The one dating Montparnasse?”

“I am,” Jehan says proudly and Montparnasse slips an arm around their waist and pulls them closer, because fuck, he could hear them say that a couple times more.

Fauntleroy lets out a dramatic sigh. “Well, I already knew you had bad taste.”

“Watch it,” Montparnasse grunts, but it occurs to him that Fauntleroy was _not_ addressing him.

“We know each other from the thrift store!” Jehan explains cheerfully.

“Do you, now?” Montparnasse says, trying to keep his expression neutral.

“He likes to give me flack for buying second hand,” Fauntleroy scoffs, curling their lip at Montparnasse.

Montparnasse gives them an unimpressed look and says nothing. Fauntleroy has more pocket money than they know how to spend. They don’t _need_ to buy second hand. Besides, thrift stores are nasty.

“So, Mont “I’ll never touch anything that’s been in a thrift store” Parnasse,” Fauntleroy grins brilliantly. “I guess Jehan is an exception?”

“Jehan’s an exception to a lot of my rules,” Montparnasse says casually.

Jehan looks delighted. “So I already knew _two_ of your friends!” they say. “Well, almost. I don’t actually know your name…”

“Faunt,” Fauntleroy says with a flick of their blue curls. “And I’m _Sous’_ friend. _We_ just tolerate each other.”

“Barely,” Montparnasse adds.

“Good to know,” Jehan laughs.

“Are Brujon and Babet around?” Montparnasse asks Fauntleroy, who is looking way too smug.

“Bru’s not coming,” Fauntleroy says, swaying from one foot to the other. “His dad wanted to take him out or something.”

Montparnasse hums. That’s new. Good, he supposes. Maybe Brujon will take the opportunity to mention that taxi business. Brujon’s expression, all badly hidden curiosity and genuine interest, is still fresh in Montparnasse’s mind. He really hopes this will actually go somewhere.

“Babet was on stage a moment ago,” Fauntleroy continues. “But you’ll have to hurry up. They’re almost starting.”

“Oh I don’t want to bother anyone,” Jehan says hastily.

Montparnasse nods. He had rather they met the guys after the show anyway. “Let’s go to the bar then,” he says.

“Okay,” Jehan agrees merrily and looks inquiringly at Fauntleroy.

“Not me,” they shake their head. “Got stuff to do. See you later maybe.” They dart away, calling back: “Cute outfit, don’t let him muss it up.”

Jehan grins. “I like them,” they say, following Montparnasse towards a door. “They’re so sparkly.”

Montparnasse hums vaguely. That’s one way to describe Fauntleroy. ‘Explosive’ is another. He pulls Jehan towards a door and they squeeze his hand excitedly.

“You ready?” he grins, looking back at them.

They nod.

Stepping into the club fills both their eyes with red. The lights are already moving and the red flickers are like fire. Jehan is still squeezing Montparnasse’s hand and he pulls them closer.

“When—” Jehan begins, but before they can finish, the doors open.

As soon as they do, a sound rings out from the speakers. At first it’s barely audible. The shuffling feet and excited voices are louder by far, but Montparnasse knows it’s there and he can feel Jehan is listening too. It’s a beat, but not made by any instrument. It sounds muffled and organic.

The gentle flickers of the light change. They were erratic, now they move in a single rhythm.

The sound grows louder. Louder still. Montparnasse hears Jehan sigh softly at the exact same moment he recognises the sound. It’s a heartbeat, growing steadily stronger. Faintly, very faintly, music starts in the background. Montparnasse glances past Jehan, but the stage is still dark.

People have stopped pouring in, but no one seems to stand still. Jehan is swaying against him as well, in time with that droning heartbeat. It’s beginning to echo his ears and Montparnasse grins. He knows what Claquesous is trying to do, but he tries not to think about it. He tries not to think at all. Jehan looks up at him with wide, shining eyes and he drops a kiss on their lips.

The crowd is moving to the rhythm. To the rhythm of the beat and the inaudible music. The thump of the beat is everywhere. It isn’t playing over the speakers at all. It’s coming from inside them.

It’s the united heartbeat of the crowd.

**“Can you feel it?”**

A shock goes through the crowd and nearly every head snaps towards the stage. Montparnasse doesn’t bother. The stage is still dark. He looks at Jehan instead. Their eyes are so wide…

**_“Answer me.”_ **

A crack like lighting splits violently through the heartbeat and out of nowhere music bursts into life.

The crowd screams.

Mascarade’s laughter rings out from every corner all at once.

**“A simple _Yes_ would have sufficed…”**

Purple light explodes on the stage and as if speaking with one voice the crowd greets their idol. Mascarade bows, music growing to deafening intensity around him as his fingers dance along unseen keys.

The heartbeat returns and the crowd jumps into a dance.

Jehan’s stares at the figure on stage like anyone ought to upon first meeting the wonder of Claquesous’ stage persona. There is still a rhythmic movement in their limbs and in an impulse Montparnasse lets them go. He lets the music pull them away from him, lets the crowd draw them in, let’s them wander wide-eyed and shining into the noise and light.

But he follows. He watches them and he follows. Just before he reaches out to pull them back, they spin around. Their hazel eyes fix on his and their lips move. The words are completely inaudible, but Montparnasse hears them nonetheless.

“Dance with me.”

Montparnasse’s grin is as dazzling as the lights. He steps forward, but stops when Jehan moves towards him.

Jehan can _dance_. It shouldn’t be shocking, but in this moment it is. Montparnasse moves gracefully and he knows it, but Jehan… He should have known of course. He has seen the clever movements of their feet when swaying to music at parties, he knows they dance with Grantaire. He’s seen them twirl and twist their hands. But he’s never seen them dance like this. They are right in front of him now. Montparnasse looks into Jehan’s face, their hazel eyes framed by emerald sparks. Once again he has a single thought of admiration to spare for Courfeyrac’s handiwork before Jehan wraps their arms around his neck and his mind fills with Jehan and only Jehan.

They dance.

With music deafening around them and light burning like fire and a crowd moving like the sea, they dance. Montparnasse looks at Jehan. At the happiness alive on their face and he knows they understand. Of course they do.

With languid, dancing movements, like the music weighs on them like water, Jehan brings their mouth right beside his ear.

“You look—” they pant, just able to make themselves heard. “— _exactly_ like you do in my midnight stories.”

Montparnasse hands find the small of their back and slide all the way down to the waistband of their shorts. “And what exactly do I _do_ in your midnight imaginings?” he asks.

“What?” Jehan shouts, laughing and dancingly moving as far away from him as they can without their hands leaving his shoulders. “I can’t hear you!”

Montparnasse’s laughter is lost in the music.

They _dance_.

Between watching the stage and dancing there is no more time for either talking or thinking. Montparnasse is delighted with every look, every smile, every movement that Jehan makes. They do not look out of place. They look like they’ve always belonged here. With him. Except he didn’t find them here. They came here with him. And they’ll leave here with him. And will still be with him in the morning.

One of the dealers, bracelet lighting up on her wrist, taps Jehan on the shoulder. Jehan turns towards her to listen. Montparnasse raises his hand to wave her away, but before he has the chance Jehan smiles brilliantly and shakes their head with what seems a cheerful thanks and refusal. To give their words weight they wrap their arms around Montparnasse and grin at the girl. She laughs and shouts something that sounds awfully close to: “Fair enough.” Before moving on.

Again Montparnasse’s laugh goes unheard. One day he will no longer be surprised by Jehan. But not today.

At length, mercifully, the music slows down. Montparnasse throws his head back, breathing deeply and Jehan does the same.

They let go of his hands and through the slight daze that has come over him Montparnasse sees them look towards the bar.

“I’ll get us drinks!” they raise their voice and before Montparnasse can answer they’re disappearing into the crowd. He watches them go, shimmers of green twisting through the mass off people like they’re not made of solid matter. Well, maybe they aren’t, Montparnasse grins to himself, they look more like a nymph tonight than ever. Or maybe it’s the rest of the world that isn’t real and Jehan’s the only real person here…

Suddenly there’s someone smiling up at him and because the world is glittering and beautiful tonight Montparnasse grins back.

“Not much of a crowd tonight,” the girl says by way of greeting, cheerful intoxication trickling through her voice.

Not for a Bal Masqué perhaps, but it’s still pretty crowded. “More room to dance,” Montparnasse replies.

“Too much!” she yells above the music, wildly shaking her head. She is dressed in silvery grey and her dark hair glitters as she turns her head. “Oh _look_ ,” she gushes. “We match!” And she takes Montparnasse’s hand, pressing their fingers together to display their matching black nails.

The cool “except I wear it better” is only a second away from his lips, when Jehan’s voice suddenly rings out from behind him.

“Hi!”

The girl looks up and Jehan is smiling at her, a bit too widely. They are holding two bottles. Montparnasse pulls his hand free and takes one of them.

“I’m Jehan,” Jehan says pleasantly, but loud enough to be clearly heard. “We’re here on a date.” They incline their head to the side, towards Montparnasse.

Instead of answering the girl laughs, unconcerned and exuberant. She puts an elegant hand on Montparnasse’s shoulder. “But he’s so _pretty_ …you’re not gonna keep him to yourself for the _entire_ night?”

“I am actually,” Jehan says and their voice is a little less pleasant. “Sorry.”

Montparnasse carefully peels the girl’s hand off his shoulder. “You heard them,” he says. “Go find someone else.”

The girl laughs again, intoxication giving a fuzzy edge to her voice, and starts to turn away. Montparnasse lets go of her hand, but suddenly she grabs his arm and pushes herself up on her toes in one fluid movement. “Your date’s _greedy_ ,” she pouts, her face suddenly right before his.

Montparnasse recoils. People do _not_ just get all up in his face like this. Not when he just told them to _go away_. He yanks his hand free and his other hand raises in a violent reflex. Then Jehan’s hand is suddenly grabbing his and they are leaning against his shoulder, putting themself between him and the girl and telling her, in a voice with an edge to it that Montparnasse has _never_ heard before:

“He _said_ go find someone else.”

The girl opens her mouth protestingly, but suddenly Jehan takes a step towards her. They’re still holding onto Montparnasse’s hand and he’s sure he feels something electric coursing through them. The girl startles and Montparnasse can just make out the words Jehan hisses at her through the buzz of the music:

“That means get _away_ from my _boyfriend_.” And there is _venom_ in their voice.

The girl stumbles back, unsteady on her feet and suddenly _very_ willing to make herself disappear. Montparnasse has already forgotten her. His eyes are fixed on Jehan, eagerly catching every disgruntled spark of possessive anger in their looks as they stare at the retreating girl. The way their voice deepened with emphasis on the word ‘boyfriend’ still hums in Montparnasse’s mind. He can still hear it when they start to turn towards him again, cheeks burning scarlet underneath the glitters of green.

“I—” Jehan begins, in a tone that veers towards apologetic, but is just a touch defensive. “She—”

Montparnasse grins, shakes his head and pulls them straight into a kiss.

Jehan kisses back fiercely and for once, reality complies with the demands of feeling. As soon as Montparnasse tastes Jehan on his tongue, all the lights fade into sudden darkness.

With a gasp they break apart and turn towards the stage. The music is circling back on itself, strings replacing the bursts of percussion. A voice starts singing in the darkness and with it the light returns. Fog is spilling off the stage, turning even the slightest light to a dull glow. Jehan is so close to Montparnasse he can feel their hurried breath on his neck, but they both stare intently at the movements on the stage.

Because something is rising up through the swirling fog. A swing. Carrying a dark figure, barely visible in the mist. The singing swells and swells and now they all see that the figure on the swing is the one singing. The crowd surges forward in disbelief. Mascarade _never_ leaves the stage.

But here he is, rising high above it, barely more than a shadow of elegant movement. Pulling the music with him as he glides through the air.

Lights flash, dazzling all the staring eyes, and a sharp silhouette is outlined on the stage. A gasp goes through the crowd like a gust of wind. For a moment, Mascarade is two instead of one. Two that play the shadows and sing the melody. Two that dazzle the audience so they don’t know where to look. Then the music breaks, shatters in a sharp rain of notes and the figure on the swing swoops forward, swinging into the lights. The crowd yells, but the screams go unheard, because Mascarade has brought back the music and it is deafening. His own voice is the loudest of all and as the words leave his lips, they are echoed by his double swinging high above his head.

**By now-**

_-by now-_

**You should know better-**

_-better-_

**Than to trust-**

_-trust-_

**Your. _Eyes!_**

_Eyes!_

Mascarade laughs and so does his double. Except when Mascarade returns to darting around the stage, calling the symphony back to life, the double keeps laughing. Their voice is high and melodic and it blurs together with the music.

“It’s Faunt!” Jehan squeals, clutching to Montparnasse in delight. “You didn’t tell me they were performing too!”

“I didn’t know,” Montparnasse yells back.

Jehan lets out an elated laugh and for a moment it sounds like it’s part of the music, just like Fauntleroy’s. They throw themself forward and Montparnasse catches them, grin instantly back on his face.

They dance differently this time. Less wild, but closer, much closer. The only thing that’s somewhat restraining them is the drinks still in their hands.

“Hey!”

The voice hardly reaches above the music, but Montparnasse does hear it and he turns around. Then he looks down. The owner of the voice is a short, plump girl with leaking stars painted on her face. “Hi!” she shouts, raising a hand.

Jehan turns around as well. They also have to look down to face the girl. To Montparnasse’s amusement they immediately let out a gasp and yell: “I love your stars!”

“Thanks!” she says and she gestures in wild admiration at Jehan’s hair in return. “Awesome snakes!”

Jehan grins.

The girl pulls a face and looks from Jehan to Montparnasse. “I’m here cause my friend’s too scared!” she shouts.

“What?” Jehan shouts, confused.

The girl gestures behind her and Montparnasse sees the girl with the glittery hair and the silver dress leaning against the wall in the corner. She holding a bottle of water and lowers her gaze as soon as he looks in her direction. Montparnasse nudges Jehan and points.

“Oh!” Jehan says, flushing a little. Hard to tell whether it’s from embarrassment at their outburst earlier, or another flash of temper.

“She’s sorry!” the star girl yells.

Jehan’s face softens, but they point towards Montparnasse. “She was bothering Parnasse, not me.”

“Yes,” Montparnasse grins, raising his voice loud enough so that both Jehan and the girl can hear him. “Thank her for me!”

The girl looks extremely puzzled at that, but smiles appreciatively and returns to her friend.

“You’re terrible,” Jehan yells, shooting Montparnasse a grin.

Montparnasse wants to say something witty about showing gratitude where it is due, but all this yelling is getting old. He knows something better to do with his mouth.

♦

The combined talents of Claquesous and Babet go a long way to creating a world in which time does not exist, but even a Bal Masqué must end.

Montparnasse’s outfit is no longer impeccable and Jehan’s glitter somehow seems – just as they are – rather tired. But Jehan’s eyes are still shining as Montparnasse finds them a quiet spot backstage to sit while they wait.

“That was wonderful,” Jehan sighs, sinking down on a crate with a happy sigh. They tip their head back and blink blissfully up at the ceiling before looking at Montparnasse, who is still standing. “I loved it,” they murmur. “ Thank you.”

They loved it… Montparnasse looks at them for a quiet moment. “I didn’t think you’d like it this much,” he says honestly. “Or I would have brought you sooner.”

Jehan smiles sleepily. “I didn’t think you liked poetry,” they remind him.

Montparnasse makes an indistinct noise and leans forward to kiss them. They kiss back happily, languidly and when he tries to pull away they make a soft noise of discontent that makes him press his lips to their cheek and neck a couple times before sitting down beside them.

“I still like it a lot more now than I used to,” he says.

Jehan’s eyes shine. They glance around, but the corridor is deserted and Montparnasse watches with fond amusement how they lightly get to their feet again and come to sit on his lap, straddling his legs. They smile at him, stroking his hair a bit. After a while they ask, almost dreamily: “How old were you when you came here first?”

“I don’t think you want to know,” Montparnasse jokes gently. He doesn’t actually remember. He can make an educated guess, but why bother.

Jehan certainly doesn’t seem bothered. They laugh a soundless laugh and nod. “Ok,” they smile and they kiss him, slow and unconcerned.

Montparnasse raises a hand to slide into their hair, but before he can there’s a low whistle beside them and Jehan pulls out of the kiss, cheeks burning.

Montparnasse leans his head back against the wall, too content to feel any nerves and drawls: “You have the most rotten timing.”

Babet grins and Montparnasse gives Jehan ‘s waist a squeeze, nodding in his friend’s direction. “This is Babet.”

Jehan gets to their feet, blush fading into a smile so genuine that Montparnasse sees Babet look a bit awkward himself for a moment. Yeah, Jehan’s full attention will do that.

“Hi!” Jehan beams. “It’s so nice to meet you! You do the light design for the show, right? It was _amazing_.”

Babet rubs at the back of his neck, flashing a grin again. “Thanks.” He slants his head. “Did it take your mind off your garish date at all?”

“I think I lost my date actually,” Jehan says, glancing laughingly back at Montparnasse before he can say something insulting. “At least I don’t remember coming in with a faerie prince.”

“Don’t do that,” Babet groans. “He’s insufferable enough as it is.”

“Can’t do any harm then, damage’s done,” Claquesous’ voice comes from a door further down the hallway.

Montparnasse gets to his feet and Jehan turns around. They smile, frown for a moment and then smile even wider. “Oh! I’ve seen you once…”

Claquesous looks back at Jehan, hands in his pockets. He looks beat, he always does after a show, but he grins, slowly. “Good memory,” he hums and he throws a smug glance in Montparnasse’s direction. Montparnasse is ready to step in and supply conversation, but he waits, just a moment. Claquesous’ eyes flit back to Jehan. “Thanks for coming,” he says.

Jehan’s face lights up. “Montparnasse hadn’t told me you sing! That was my favourite part.”

Claquesous looks smug.

“Talk about damage done,” Montparnasse snarks, wrapping an arm around Jehan’s waist. He gives both his friends an appraising look. “You were showing off tonight.”

Now Babet and Claquesous _both_ look smug and temporarily they revert partially to their professional persona’s as they fish for feedback— and compliments.

Montparnasse mixes his genuine praise liberally with insults and nearly laughs to see his friends thrown off balance by Jehan’s erratic alternation between shy mutterings an starry-eyed bursts of compliments. There’s a dazed warmth in the back of his mind that is proving remarkably persistent.

It’s still there when someone from the club comes in to speak to Claquesous, and Babet begins to complain that he needs to be fed.

“I’ll let Gueul know we’re coming home then,” Montparnasse says, pulling out his phone.

“Oh yeah,” Babet says, face brightening at the prospect of actual food.

“Is Faunt coming?” Jehan asks eagerly.

Babet grins. “I saw them making out with one of my techies a moment ago, so maybe not.”

“Which one,” Claquesous says sharply, turning round.

“Cam,” Babet replies, clarifying when he’s met with a blank stare: “Carmagnolet, with the red fringe.”

Claquesous relaxes. “Oh, fine then,” he grunts. “Give me a minute and we’ll go.”

In the bustle of getting ready to leave, Montparnasse does very little except watch Jehan. They were tense at first, but less so now. They don’t seem too disappointed that Fauntleroy isn’t coming, but – Montparnasse thinks philosophically – he has the feeling he’s going to be seeing a lot more of Fauntleroy in future.

“What do you _mean_ you didn’t like Branagh’s production?” Babet bursts out while they’re walking out of the club and into the greying morning.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Jehan contradicts. “I said I didn’t like Don John.”

“You can’t blame a movie for Keanu Reeves,” Babet scoffs.

“Don’t be mean to Keanu Reeves,” Jehan says, scolding in turn.

Babet makes an exasperated noise and Jehan interrupts him:

“Have you seen Devil’s Advocate?”

“Have _you_ seen Devil’s Advocate?” Babet gapes.

Claquesous lets out a snorting laugh from where he’s walking beside Montparnasse.

They both watch with amusement how Babet gets drawn into an artistic argument with an increasingly passionate Jehan. Montparnasse grins. So far this is going about as well as it possibly could have.

Claquesous makes a vague noise and Montparnasse draws up an eyebrow. Claquesous looks from Jehan to Montparnasse and gives a minute shake of the head. “It was them, at the store? The cute customer? Literal fucking _ages_ ago.”

Montparnasse pulls a face. Claquesous has a _freakishly_ good memory and his friends gossip like a bunch of grandmothers. He hums in confirmation.

Claquesous snorts and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Sure made quick work of that one, didn’t you, hm?” He glances ahead at Jehan and Babet again. “Damn shame too. Next time don’t keep people capable of goading Babet like that all to yourself, you selfish ass.”

“Sure,” Montparnasse grins. “Next time.”

Claquesous smirks at that, just like he does when Montparnasse pulls Jehan onto his lap on the metro. Babet is still huffing about cinema and theatre, but Jehan seems to have made all the points they wanted to make.

“He’ll shut up eventually,” Montparnasse mutters amusedly into Jehan’s ear. “Something will make him forget what he was talking about.”

Jehan laughs, yawning through their laugh involuntarily.

Montparnasse chuckles and pulls them a little closer. It seems some of his best memories with Jehan are wrapped in tiredness.

“Gueul is complaining about us being late and chocolatines,” Babet says, his phone suddenly in his hand.

“Whatever,” Claquesous says. “That means no waiting. I’m _starving_.”

Jehan makes a soft sound and Montparnasse looks at them. “Hm?”

“Nothing,” they smile. “Feuilly said I’ll like Gueulemer.”

Montparnasse smirks. “Did he now?”

Jehan smiles a little wider. “You know he asked a while ago if we’d both come over for dinner once. We’ve never hung out just the three of us.”

“This is our stop, lovebirds,” Babet crows.

Montparnasse gets to his feet, pulling Jehan up with him, but gives no other acknowledgement that he’s heard Babet. Never mind never having hung out just the three of them, he hasn’t had dinner with Feuilly since a time that he basically refused to eat anything but junk food. He grins. “Sure,” he says, linking his arm with Jehan’s as they follow Babet and Claquesous. “Invite him over to mine. And tell him I’ll cook.”

Jehan beams.

“You’re gonna fucking walk into traffic, Sous,” Babet bitches .

“Oops,” Claquesous says flatly, walking deliberately into Babet, eyes never leaving his phone.

“Leave Faunt alone,” Babet says, glancing at his screen. “Let Cam have her conquest.”

Claquesous makes a scoffing noise and Jehan giggles. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to see Brujon,” they say softly.

“Plenty of time for that later,” Montparnasse says. “Fauntleroy too.” He’s kind of glad they haven’t come along now though. Less of a crowd in Gueulemer’s place.

It’s rather full as it is when they all crowd around the breakfast table.

“You look—” Gueulemer says, turning round at the ancient oven. “—like a bunch of lost street performers.”

He grins at Jehan. “Hot chocolate or coffee?”

“He’ll make you tea if you twist his arm,” Babet confides, pulling the coffee pot towards him. “Fuck that smells good though.”

“Chocolate please,” Jehan smiles, sitting down next to Montparnasse. “Thank you.”

Gueulemer chuckles and hands them the bread basket, before turning back to the stove to pour the milk. “Help yourself, sprite.”

Breakfast – although Montparnasse doubts it can really pass for breakfast considering how long it goes on for – is a mess of talking about the show, interrogating Jehan and appreciatively mocking Gueulemer’s housekeeping. After a while Montparnasse sits back and just watches. He’s tired. He’s happy. And he’s storing memories.

Gueulemer’s confusion as Jehan explains they don’t eat fish either. Babet’s obnoxious comments when he gets a smug text from Carmagnolet. Claquesous badly hidden grins when Jehan tells him about their thrift store encounters with Fauntleroy. Jehan’s delighted squeal when Babet is coaxed into showing them a picture of his daughter.

Montparnasse doesn’t even try to check his smile.

It’s no longer morning when they all finally stumble to their respective beds. And for Jehan that means Montparnasse’s bed, where they look every inch the misplaced nymph on the black sheets. Except not misplaced. Not at all.

Montparnasse slides in next to them, pulling the duvet on top of them both and pressing a kiss on Jehan’s temple. There are still stray glitters on their freshly washed face.

“Your friends are as much fun as they sounded,” Jehan sighs contentedly.

Montparnasse looks at them a little longer instead of answering.

Jehan’s eyes spark determinedly for a moment. “But none of them have seen Le Magasin du Suicide!” they exclaim. “We have to make them! At least Claquesous and Babet.”

Montparnasse smiles. “Remind me next time you come over,” he hums.

There is another spark in Jehan’s eyes at that and they nestle closer against Montparnasse.

“You tired?” Montparnasse asks. He is tired, he can feel that, but he also doesn’t feel like sleeping anymore.

“Yes,” Jehan says. “But also way past my sleeping point.”

“ _Well_ ,” Montparnasse grins, but before he can move, Jehan has pushed themself up on their hands and is already leaning over him, their braid sliding forward and tickling his face.

They smile down on him, bright as the sun that’s trickling through the badly closed curtains. “Ich liebe dich, Montparnasse,” they say gently.

“ _Atrocious_ pronunciation, vögelchen,” Montparnasse says with a grin. He tilts his head back on the pillow and lets his expression soften. “I love you too,” he hums. “But I suppose I should answer in _your_ language, shouldn’t I?”

For a moment he savours the puzzled expression on Jehan’s face and then Montparnasse smiles, remembering all the glorious details of the past months, and shamelessly quotes Keats at them until they kiss his mouth shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The. End.
> 
> My goodness, this is the longest non-fantasy fic I have _ever_ written.
> 
> I’d like to give my undying thanks to the friends that had to put up with me agonizing about this project, but most of all to my endlessly patient beta and sister. Without her I would not be in this fandom, my characters would lack a great deal of sparkling detail and this story would have been abandoned before Jehan and Montparnasse even got together. She is the best editor anybody could wish for and a very talented writer in her own right. Please check out her [Les Mis Regency AU](https://archiveofourown.org/series/911544) <3
> 
> And thank _you_ so much for reading, for making it all the way to the end.  
>  It would mean the world to you if you’d tell me what you think of it, after sticking with me through 16 chapters that were never meant to happen in the first place. I treasure every comment, kudos, reblog and tag, they make me infinitely happy. 
> 
> Well...that was it! Maybe I’ll see you in another story~
> 
> Happy Tuesday to you all <3

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [tumblr](https://mysunfreckle.tumblr.com/about) full of fluff and nonsense, come say hi!


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